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William Le Queux
Beryl of the Biplane
Being the Romance of an Air-Woman of To-Day
Published by Good Press, 2019
EAN 4064066230968
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I. THE MYSTERIOUS NUMBER SEVEN.
CHAPTER III. THE SHABBY STRANGER.
CHAPTER IV. THE THURSDAY RENDEZVOUS.
CHAPTER V. CONCERNS THE HIDDEN HAND.
CHAPTER VI. THE PRICE OF VICTORY.
BERYL OF THE BIPLANE
CHAPTER I.
THE MYSTERIOUS NUMBER SEVEN.
“Are you flying ‘The Hornet’ to-night?”
“I expect so.”
“You were up last night, weren’t you? Mac told me so at Brooklands this morning.”
“Yes—Zepp-hunting. I was up three hours, but, alas! had no luck. Two came in over Essex but were scared by the anti-aircraft boys, and turned tail. Better luck to-night, I hope,” and Ronald Pryor, the tall, dark, good-looking young man in grey flannels, laughed merrily as, with a quick movement, he flicked the ash from his after-luncheon cigarette.
His companion, George Bellingham, who was in the uniform of the Royal Flying Corps, wearing the silver wings of the pilot, was perhaps three years his senior, fair-haired, grey-eyed, with a small sandy moustache trimmed to the most correct cut.
Passers-by in Pall Mall on that June afternoon no doubt wondered why Ronald Pryor was not in khaki. As a matter of fact, the handsome, athletic young fellow had already done his bit—and done it with very great honour and distinction.
Before the war he had been of little good to society, it is true. He had been one of those modern dandies whose accomplishments include an elegant taste in socks—with ties to match—and a critical eye for an ill-cut pair of trousers. Eldest son of a wealthy bank-director, Ronnie Pryor had been born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth. After his career at Oxford, his father, Henry Pryor, who lived mostly at his beautiful old place, Urchfont Hall, a few miles out of Norwich, had given him an ample allowance. He had lived in a bachelor flat in Duke Street, St. James’s, and spent several gay years about town with kindred souls of both sexes, becoming a familiar object each night at the supper-tables of the Savoy, the Carlton, or the Ritz.
This wild oat sowing had, however, been brought to an abrupt conclusion in a rather curious manner.
One Saturday afternoon he had driven in a friend’s car over to the Aerodrome at Hendon, and had there witnessed some graceful flying. He had instantly become “bitten” by the sport, and from that moment had devoted himself assiduously to it.
Four months later he had taken his “ticket” as a pilot, and then, assisted by capital from his indulgent father, had entered business by establishing the well-known Pryor Aeroplane Factory at Weybridge, with a branch at Hendon, a business in which his companion, Flight-Lieutenant George Bellingham, of the Royal Flying Corps, had been, and was still, financially interested.
That Ronnie Pryor—as everyone called him—was a handsome fellow could not be denied. His was a strongly marked personality, clean-limbed, with close-cut dark hair, a refined aquiline face, and that slight contraction of the eyebrows that every air-pilot so quickly develops. On the outbreak of war he had been out with General French, had been through the retreat from Mons, and while scouting in the air during the first battle of Ypres, had been attacked by a German Taube. A fierce and intensely exciting fight in the air ensued, as a result of which he brought his enemy down within our own lines, but unfortunately received a severe wound in the stomach himself, and, planing down, reached earth safely a long distance away and collapsed unconscious.
The condition of his health was such that the Medical Board refused to pass him for service abroad again, therefore he was now devoting his time to building aeroplanes for the Government, and frequently flying them at night, thus assisting in the aerial defence of our coast, and of London.
Ronnie Pryor was known as one of the most daring and intrepid air-pilots that we possessed. Before his crash he had brought down quite a number of his adversaries in the air, for the manner in which he could manipulate his machine, “zumming,” diving, rising, and flying a zigzag course, avoiding the enemy’s fire, was marvellous. Indeed, it was he who one afternoon dropped nine bombs upon the enemy’s aerodrome at Oudenarde, being mentioned in despatches for that daring exploit.
His one regret was that the doctor considered him “crocked.” Discarding his uniform he, in defiance of everybody, flew constantly in the big biplane which he himself had built, and which the boys at Hendon had nicknamed “The Hornet.” The machine was a “strafer,” of the most formidable type, with an engine of two hundred and fifty horse-power, fitted with a Lewis gun and a rack for bombs, while no more daring airman ever sat at a joy-stick than its owner.
“They’re running that new Anzani engine on the bench at Hendon,” Bellingham remarked presently. “I’m going out to see it. Come with me.”
Ronnie considered for a few seconds, and then accepted the suggestion, he driving his partner out to Hendon in his yellow car which had been standing in St. James’s Square.
At the busy aerodrome, where all sorts of machines were being assembled and tested, they entered the spacious workshops of the Pryor Aeroplane Factory where, in one corner, amid whirring machinery, a large aeroplane-engine was running at top speed with a hum that was deafening in the confined space.
Half-an-hour later both men went forth again into the aerodrome where several “school ’buses” were being flown by pupils of the flying school. Suddenly Bellingham’s quick airman’s eye caught sight of a biplane at a great height coming from the north-west.
“Why, isn’t that Beryl up in your ’bus?” he exclaimed, pointing out the machine. “I didn’t know she was out to-day.”
“Yes,” was Ronnie’s reply. “She flew over to Huntingdon this morning to see her sister.”
“Was she up with you last night?”
“Yes. She generally goes up daily.”
“She has wonderful nerve for a woman,” declared George. “A pupil who has done great credit to her tutor—yourself, Ronnie. How many times has she flown the Channel?”
“Seven. Three times alone, and four with me. The last time she crossed alone she went up from Bedford and landed close to Berck, beyond Paris-Plage. She passed over Folkestone, and then over to Cape Grisnez.”
“Look at her now!” Bellingham exclaimed in admiration. “By Jove! She’s doing a good stunt!”
As he spoke the aeroplane which Beryl Gaselee was flying, that great battleplane of Ronnie’s