Dastral of the Flying Corps

"Aye, aye," answered the pilot, altering the controls slightly, and bringing her head round upon a more southerly course.

Shortly after this, the town and harbour of Boulogne came into full view to the naked eye. Their intention was to leave it a little on their left, and, then making a landfall of a certain railhead and canal, take a short cross-country flight to the big aerodrome behind the British lines. They now began to regard themselves as nearly at the end of their journey, and had no expectation of a still greater adventure before them–an adventure which would prevent them reaching their destination, at any rate, that day.

Only some five or six miles of sea now lay between them and the land, and they were right over the track of the transports, which made a continuous line of traffic between the two shores, when Fisker, who had taken up his glasses again in order to watch a batch of troopships, escorted by a couple of destroyers, suddenly turned them on to a large four tunnelled hospital ship, which, coming out of the harbour, crowded with wounded and war-worn men, was ploughing its solitary way towards Old Blighty, without any other escort or protector than the Red Cross flag.

Suddenly, as he watched the stately vessel moving along at twenty-five knots, with the huge combers falling away from her bow, and a long milk-white trail from her stern, he started suddenly, and lowered his glasses, almost shrieking at the top of his voice:–

"See there, Dastral! Quick!"

"Where away?" cried the pilot, turning round sharply, and catching a glimpse of Fisker's horrified face.

"There!" exclaimed the observer, laconically, pointing with his hand in the direction of the hospital ship.

Dastral looked in the direction indicated.

"The brutes!" he gasped. "Not if I can prevent it."

That which had called forth these horrified expressions was nothing more or less than a lurking German submarine, hidden beneath the water, but with a few inches of periscope above the surface, manoeuvring to bring the huge hospital ship within its range. It had evidently watched the procession of transports pass by, but, fearing that it might be rammed by one of the destroyers if it revealed its presence, it had waited for some other tasty morsel to come along. Unfortunately, there was nothing she could touch but this hospital ship.

With any other nation, a vessel flying the sacred emblem of humanity, which floated from the masthead of the ship, would have been immune from attack. But to the Hun no code of morals seems to hold good. Nor was any crime to be regarded as such if only some damage could be inflicted upon the enemy.

"Ach, wohl, mein herr!" the German ober-lieutenant in the submarine was remarking to his superior officer at that moment. "The verdomt transports are gone, and there's nothing but a big 'hospital ship steaming by. Shall we loose a leetle tin fish at her? You can't trust these English; they're probably transporting materials of war. There are sure to be some staff officers on her decks anyhow. What say you, mein herr?"

"Sink the blamed hooker, Fritz! We can say that she tried to ram us, when we make out our report. No one will be any the wiser, for dead men can't tell tales. He, he! Ho, ho!"

And already the commander's hand was upon the lever in the conning-tower which controlled the torpedo tubes in the bow. Hesitating just for a second, as though battling with the last shreds of a lingering conscience, he pulled the lever.

"Swiss-s-s-h!" came the sound as the deadly missile left the tube and entered the water.

"Good heavens! She's fired!" exclaimed both the aviators, as, in the very middle of a dangerous nose dive they saw what had transpired, and followed for an instant, even in that downward dive, the wake of the deadly torpedo.

Fortunately, at that very moment the captain of the Galicia, the big four-funnelled boat, having had his attention attracted to the spot by the nose-dive of the warplane, saw the periscope of the enemy's submarine, and, starboarding his helm, swung the huge vessel just sufficiently to port for the first torpedo to miss his stern by a few feet.

Then commenced a stern chase, for the Galicia, seeing the imminent danger that she was in, sought refuge in flight. Placing her stern towards the oncoming submarine, she fled down Channel, hoping thereby to save her precious cargo of wounded heroes.

"Donner and blitz!" exclaimed the commander to his lieutenant. "We have missed her. That will never do. We must sink her now at any cost, or the American cables will be full of the affair, and the anger of the neutral world will be turned against us once more."

"What shall we do, mein herr?" asked the lieutenant of the submarine. "She can do twenty-five knots and we can only do seventeen while we are submerged."

"We must run her awash, and give her three-inch shells with the deck guns. The transports and patrols are some distance off now."

"She will be calling back the destroyers by now with her wireless, mein herr."

"Gott in Himmel! but we must risk it. There may just be time. I wish we had let the blamed hooker go by."

Then, with a few round oaths, he switched down the periscope, pulled over the lever that drove the water out of the ballast tanks, and, as the boat came to the surface, he had the hatch unshipped, and ordered his gun crew to stations, calling them dachshunds, and a few more vile names.

As soon as the submarine came to the surface, the electric motors were stopped, and the surface engines started so that every knot could be got out of them.

"All clear!" had been reported to him by the lieutenant, and as regards the narrow horizon which can be surveyed from the periscope of a submerged vessel, all was indeed clear, for they had not seen the hornet which was buzzing overhead, silently dipping and nose-diving with her engines shut off, and rapidly manoeuvring like an angry wasp, waiting but an opportunity to get at its victim.

So intent was the submarine commander upon his prey, with one eye on the hospital ship and another on the horizon, watching for the patrol boats, which he knew would be sure to return, that he had even got his deck-gun to work, and was firing rapidly at the Galicia, when to his dismay he heard, just over his head, the whir-r-r-r-r of the aeroplane, as Dastral started his engine again.

"Mein Gott, was ist das?" he cried.

"Ach, Himmel, but we are lost!" came the cry from the gunners and the ober-lieutenant.

"Dachshunds!–you verdomt fools, turn the gun on the aeroplane!" yelled the irate commander, but he realised that he had lost the game.

Nearer and nearer came that dreaded enemy, with its angry buzz, till but a hundred feet above the broad, whale-like back of the submarine, for Dastral, having but the two twenty-pound bombs in his carrier, determined not to miss his chance.

"Be careful, Jock!" he shouted. "Drop it right on her conning-tower. Take no risks."

"Right-o, old fellow!" Jock had replied, his hand on the bomb release. "She's giving us shrapnel, though. Look out!"

"Spit . . . Bang! Spit . . . Bang!" came the bursting shrapnel from the quick-firing gun on the deck of the submarine, and a shot hitting the left aileron of the warplane, just as the observer was releasing the first bomb, caused her to roll and bank so much that the bomb fell into the sea, just a few inches from the starboard beam of the boat.

"Great heavens, you've missed him!" shouted Dastral, as the bomb, which was fitted with a contact fuse, sank down harmlessly into the sea.

Jock bit his lips, which were white with anger at his failure, and placed his hand once more on the bomb release. It was his last bomb. If they failed this time they were done, for already they had lost several struts and wires, and the planes had been holed in a score of places.

Even Dastral's face was pale, though not with fear, as he jammed the rudder bar over with his feet, and using the joy-stick as well, came round swiftly once more, dropping down to within fifty feet of his enemy.

"Great Scott! She's preparing to submerge, Jock. For heaven's sake don't miss her this time!"

Jock did not reply, but taking true aim just as they were directly over the boat, he dropped his second and last bomb fairly and squarely on the conning-tower.

"Whis-s-s-h! Boom-m-m!" came the sound as the bomb descended swiftly and exploded right amidships, splitting the conning tower open, just as it was being closed ready for the boat to descend.

A blinding sheet of flame shot up into the sky, scorching both the pilot and the observer, and a crashing noise followed the explosion, as the submarine, her deck split open and rent in twain, opened out, then sank like a stone, carrying down with her the twenty-two men who manned her.

A few minutes afterwards the only trace of the pirates was an ever-extending patch of oil which floated on the surface of the water, punctured here and there by the air bubbles which forced their way through the patch.

So suddenly did she disappear from view that even the airmen, scorched and bruised and bleeding from slight shrapnel wounds, were amazed at the work of their hands. Dastral was the first to recover speech, however.

"Well done, Jock!" he cried. "Thus may all pirates perish who fire on the Red Cross flag."

The observer did not reply, however, for he had fallen forward in a dead faint, from sheer excitement and loss of blood; perhaps most of all from sheer fear of failure with his last bomb. And now his head was resting against the wind screen just in front of the cockpit.

"Jock! Jock! What's the matter?" Dastral called to him.

The observer made an effort to rouse himself, for he had only momentarily lost consciousness. He lifted up his head, tugged at his leather helmet, and managed at last to pull it off.

"Great Scott! You're wounded!" exclaimed Dastral as he saw the blood streaming from his companion's face.

"It's all right now. I feel better, Dastral. Carry on! The petrol tank overhead here is leaking, and we're about run out. But I've sent a message to the destroyers on the wireless and here they come."

Dastral turned sharply, and looked in the direction which Jock had indicated by slightly raising his hand.

"Yes. Hurrah! Here they come!" he cried.

And indeed there was no mistaking that long trail of black smoke just a couple of miles away, nor the white trail of foam as the combers broke and fell away from the two snake-like boats, which were coming up full pelt, for they had been drawn to the spot by the sound of the firing even before they had picked up Jock's message.

Nor did they come a moment too soon, for the aeroplane was wounded as well as her crew. Her work was done, at any rate for the next few days, until she had been overhauled by the smart air-mechanics, fitters and riggers of the Royal Flying Corps. The engine was missing too, very badly, for the petrol tank was pierced in several places, and the supply had almost run out. The planes and struts were damaged and in parts shot away, so much so, that, as Dastral jammed over the controls and banked to bring her round, with her head towards the rapidly approaching patrols, one of the wings collapsed, and she slithered down, slipping sideways into the sea, now only some thirty feet below her.

"Jump, Jock! Jump!" cried Dastral. And both the aviators, having managed to free themselves, leapt out as the singed and broken air-wasp lightly struck the waves.

Fortunately the life-saving jackets, which all the ferry pilots are compelled to wear when crossing the Channel, ensured their safety, once they managed to disentangle themselves from the wreckage of the 'plane.

"This way, Jock. Let us keep together. Here come the destroyers!" shouted the pilot. And the next instant, they heard a strong voice shout out–

"Hard-a-starboard there! Jam her over, man!"

And immediately after the same voice shouted to the man at the engine room telegraph–

"Full speed astern!"

Two minutes later both the aviators were safe on board the destroyer. A signal from her slender masthead caused the other boat to sweep round, pick up the wrecked warplane, which was already settling down, and to tow her into port.

So ended the adventure of the ferry-pilot and his companion. And next morning, after a good night's rest at the Hotel de l'Europe in Boulogne, a short message in a pink envelope, which was placed on the breakfast tray, informed the youthful and daring heroes that–

"His Majesty, King George the Fifth, desires to congratulate and to thank Lieutenants Dastral and Fisker, of the Royal Flying Corps, for, when on active service, their gallantry and courage in attacking and sinking the enemy submarine U41, and to confer upon them the COMPANIONSHIP OF THE DISTINGUISHED SERVICE ORDER."

CHAPTER III
OVER THE GERMAN LINES

"WE must have been born under a lucky star, Jock, to win the D.S.O. as well as the thanks of the King, for that trifling little incident which occurred yesterday," said Dastral as they sat down to a substantial breakfast that morning, in the dainty little coffee-room which looked out on to the English Channel.

"It was a stroke of luck, anyhow, to encounter that U boat just when we did. We should have made a landfall in another five minutes, and then we should have missed her altogether," replied his companion, pausing for an instant in his attack on the coffee and hot rolls.

"And the hospital ship?" queried the pilot.

"Ah, the brutes! But we were one too many for them," replied Jock. "I had the time of my life during that short fight. I'd just love a scrap like that every day. Almost wish I'd joined the R.N.A.S. now. What say you, old fellow? Besides, the odds were all on our side. The Hun never so much as suspected our presence, else he wouldn't have shown himself as he did."

"Just wait a few days, Jock, till we join our fellows down at the Squadron, and you'll have all the excitement you want."

"You mean?" went on the observer, looking up into the pilot's face as he helped himself to another portion of grilled ham and fried eggs.

"I mean," Dastral continued, without waiting for Jock to finish his sentence, "I mean, wait till we get orders from the new Squadron Commander to go over the German lines. The odds will not be so much in our favour."

"H'm! I wonder what it's like to be over there with the shrapnel bursting all around you, and miles and miles of trenches below you, with the 'Archies' spitting at you all the time with continuous bursts of fire, and the very heavens full of air-pockets."

"And half a dozen Fokkers coming up out of the horizon to scuttle you, and give you a spinning nose-dive of ten thousand feet into No Man's land, with your petrol tank blazing, and your engine missing, eh? Go on, you veritable misanthrope!" and here both the young heroes burst into a fit of laughter at the woeful, nerve-shattering picture which they had both been drawing.

Thus they continued to talk about the future which lay immediately before them. Yet all these things they were to see, and much more, ere they were many months older. They were full of life and vigour, and in action they were to prove daring and resourceful; yet they were wise in this, that they did not under-estimate either the task that lay before them, or the enemy they were to meet.

Their chief concern for the present, however, was centred on the broken aeroplane, with which they had started from England on the previous day for their first flight overseas. "I wonder what's become of the hornet," said Dastral, a few moments later, as they sat by the fireside, and settled down to a smoke.

"We shall hear shortly, as you have wired to the O.C. reporting the incident. Besides, the destroyer is sure to have brought her in, even if she is badly damaged."

Shortly after this the telephone bell in the corridor rang. A maid appeared, and after a very pretty French curtsey, said:–

"Monsieur le Commandant Dastral, s'il vous plait?"

"Ah, oui, Mademoiselle, qu'est-ce que vous voulez?" asked Dastral, rising to his feet, and returning the pretty maid's curtsey.

"C'est pour vous, ce message téléphonique."

"Merci, mam'selle," replied Dastral, as he hastened to the telephone box.

"Hullo! Who is that?" asked a voice some twenty or thirty miles away.

"Lieutenant Dastral, of the Flying Corps. Who is that, please?"

"Major Bulford, Squadron Commander, speaking from the aerodrome at St. Champau."

"Yes, sir!" replied Dastral smartly, springing unconsciously to attention, although the voice was so far away from him.

"Good-morning, Dastral. Congratulations, my boy. I have heard all about your adventures yesterday from my Adjutant. You've started well! You're just the man we're wanting here. We're having warm work with the Boches this week. You're a lucky dog to run into a German submarine on your first trip over."

"Oh, it was my observer, sir. He spotted the blamed thing, and bombed her. It was as easy as winking. Just a stroke of luck, sir, that's all."

"Well, I hope your luck 'll keep in. We shall be glad to see you as soon as you can come over. Are you both all right?"

"Yes, sir. Quite all right, 'cept for a slight chill through being in the water for a few minutes."

"Well, better stay where you are a couple of days if you are comfortable, and then come on here."

"Thank you, sir. Yes, we're quite comfortable here, and we'll report at the aerodrome in a couple of days."

"Right. Good-bye. Oh, I say! Are you there?"

"Yes, sir."

"I was going to tell you that the machine arrived here about an hour ago. It's some 'bus' and I like the look of her, except that she's badly smashed, and will be in the hands of the riggers and mechanics for four or five days before she can be used again."

"Oh, that's not so bad. I feared she would be useless after the crash she got, sir. How did you get her there so quickly?"

"Oh, we received word from the harbourmaster that she had been brought in by a destroyer, and we immediately sent down a couple of tenders with trailers and brought her on here this morning. Good-bye. The fellows here are all anxious to meet you."

"Good-bye, sir."

As soon as he had rung off Dastral rushed back into the room to tell Jock all about his chat with the O.C. of the Squadron at St. Champau, and especially about the two days' extra leave.

"Good!" ejaculated his friend. "Seems a decent sort of chap, eh?"

"Rather a sport, I should say, old man."

"Capital. That little affair of ours yesterday seems to have done us no harm. It'll probably give us a good entree into the new mess. Hope they're all decent fellows there."

So they spent half the morning resting after their exciting adventures of the previous day, and reading the papers, some of which gave censored accounts of the event. The two days passed all too quickly, and on the third morning they were both awakened just before dawn by the rep-r-r-r of a motor bicycle, which pulled up sharply outside the hotel.

It was "Brat" the despatch rider of the – Squadron, who had come post haste from Major Bulford, with an urgent message which ran as follows:–

"To Lieutenant Dastral, D.S.O.,"

Hotel de l'Europe,

"Boulogne-sur-Mer.

"Be prepared to join Squadron immediately.

Tender will call for you within an hour."

JOHN BULFORD,

Major."

Two hours later both the young officers were on their way to St. Champau, where they arrived before noon.

They received a warm welcome at the mess and were congratulated upon their recent adventure. They soon found that plenty of work and adventure awaited them on the morrow. The incessant roar of the British artillery, which was carrying out an intense bombardment of the whole front, amazed and bewildered them, for preparations were already in progress for the Somme "push."

Away to the eastward, the line of battle was clearly demarked. Shells were bursting in mid-air, and during the afternoon a huge mine was exploded under the enemy's trenches, which shook the earth for twenty miles around, and hurled thousands of tons of timber, rocks, and clay into the air, making a crater of huge diameter, towards which the British advanced and later in the day captured and consolidated the position.

About three o'clock in the afternoon, a flight of aeroplanes, which had been over the German lines, returned. Two of them had been badly hit and one of the observers had been seriously wounded. They reported having encountered several flights of enemy 'planes, which, however, had avoided them and made off eastward. They also reported some unusual activity behind the enemy's lines, but, the weather having become dull, and the sky overcast, they were unable to make a full reconnaissance.

"H'm. There must be a further reconnaissance at dawn," the O.C. had remarked, after receiving their report. Then, turning to Dastral, he said:

"Lieutenant Dastral."

"Yes, sir," replied the young pilot, advancing towards his superior officer, and saluting smartly.

"The mechanics and riggers have been working day and night on your new machine since we received it. They will continue the work through the night, and I want you to supervise it, so that it will be ready before to-morrow. I want you to use it as soon as possible. We have lost so many of our machines lately over there," and here the O.C. made a gesture with his right hand towards that line of fire and blood, where the British and French troops held back the enemy's hordes.

"Nothing will give me greater pleasure, sir," replied the intrepid youth, glowing with pride at the thought that he was to be made use of so quickly.

"And–er–I want you to carefully study the map of the section in which we are working. It will be absolutely necessary for you to know every road, hamlet and village marked on that map, before you go over. You understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then get to work at once, my dear fellow. I have great hopes of you, and if you continue as you have begun, I can promise you it will not be long before you are made a Flight-Commander."

Dastral blushed deeply at this compliment, for he was but a boy in years, despite his courage and resource. Leaving the Commander's presence, he went direct to the shed, where he found Jock, who was not only a brilliant observer but a first-rate mechanic, and already had the work in hand, having been drawn there by his affection for the filmy thing that had already brought them across the seas, and had served them so well during at least one great adventure.

"Well, how is she, Jock?" were his first words.

"Ripping!" replied the observer, handling the delicate creature as though she were a lady. "I've already been round her. The engine and propellor are quite sound now. The new petrol tank and feed are already fitted, and in another couple of hours she'll be as perfect as when she left England."

"Good!" exclaimed Dastral, who had the greatest confidence in the lad's judgment in these matters, and was prepared to back him against any expert in aerodynamics, or the mechanism of any aeroplane in existence.

"What say you to a trip in her this evening? There'll be plenty of time before dusk, old fellow."

"Yes, I'm quite agreed, even if it's only a joy-ride to try her, for to-morrow we go over there," said the pilot, flinging away the stump of his cigar, and jerking his thumb in the direction of his shoulder.

"Over where?" asked Jock, straightening himself from the stooping position he had assumed, to examine the baffle-plates on the propeller.

"Over the German lines," came the reply.

"Really! You mean it, and so soon?"

"Yes, to-morrow at dawn we go over on a reconnaissance; C.O.'s orders."

"Good!" exclaimed the observer, throwing down a spanner which he still held in his hand.

"And here's a map of the section in front of our lines. We must spend the evening over it."

So that evening, after the machine had been got quite ready for her next flight, they spent four hours over the map, scaling it out, and committing to memory the names of villages, hamlets, rivers, canals, roads and railway lines, so that when they retired to bed, the whole of the map was actually photographed upon their minds.

Morning came at length, and at the first whisper of dawn, having received their detailed orders from the Squadron-Commander, four or five aeroplanes were wheeled out on to the aerodrome, then taxied off quickly and disappeared in the dark. The last of the flight was the hornet, with Dastral and Jock starting on their first real venture over the enemy's lines.

After climbing rapidly, and circling round the aerodrome once or twice, the machines made off, each to reconnoitre the section of the line allotted to it.

The hornet carried two Lewis guns, with plenty of ammunition, for when an aerial patrol sets out on a flight, one never knows what duels he may have to engage in before he returns. The hornet had this advantage over the other machines, which were of an older pattern: she had a higher speed, was a better climber, and with her improved controls she could manoeuvre more quickly than any other machine yet made.

"Gee whiz!" cried Jock down the speaking tube, which ended close to the pilot's ear, "but she's climbing."

"What is it?" yelled back the pilot, half turning his head so that his mouth came near to the end of the tube.

"Three thousand feet," came the answer.

"Good! Then we'll make a bee-line and cross the trenches. Look out for 'Archie'!"

The dawn had broken by now, and away in the east the gloom was lifting, but down below it was still wrapped in mist and darkness. It was the hour of standing-to. Down below thousands of eyes would be straining through the obscurity to find that speck in the heavens whence came that whir-r-ring sound.

But upward and onward went the hornet With a stern, strong beat of power in her twelve-cylindered engine. Nearer and nearer she came to that long line which stretched from the sand-dunes of Belgium away to Switzerland. The observer was already keenly surveying the landscape through his glasses as the light broadened, and the countryside revealed itself.

A silvery streak lay beneath them; it was the River Ancre. Now a broad white patch of roadway came into view. It was the main road from Albert to Bapaume. As they came out of a bank of rolling mist and fog, a few red roofs and a church tower next came into view, standing just where four roads met.

"Contalmaison?" queried Dastral, and Jock, after a brief reference to his waterproof map, called back:

"Yes, and Bazentin on the left."

They were now almost over the trenches, and far beneath they could discern hundreds of tiny points of fires.

"What are they?" asked the pilot again, and the observer who had been scanning those red sparks for a couple of minutes replied,

"Fires in the British trenches. Men cooking their morning rations. Can't you smell the bacon?"

Dastral laughed and sniffed the keen morning air, as though in reality he could make out the fragrant aroma of the morning dish, about which those cold, wet, and shivering heroes of the trenches were standing, ankle-deep in mud and clay.

"The poor devils!" added the pilot, altering his controls slightly, and wheeling round to the south to pick up the enemy's lines more clearly at a point where they made a sharp curve.

They could now clearly see both the British and the German trenches. Three long, scarred and ragged lines of brown earth showed clearly where the enemy's front-line, reserve and support trenches stood. Long, twisting lines of similar demarcation showed where the communication trenches ran.

Now they were over No Man's land, sailing along serenely, and the artillery down below had already opened the morning concert on both fronts, when–

"Biff, puff–!" came a time-fuse shrapnel and burst scarcely a hundred feet in front of the machine. Then another and another as the "Archies" below spotted the hornet, and tried to give her a packet.

Suddenly they were in a cloud of yellow smoke and half-poisonous fumes, which made them gasp and sputter. Then, owing to the bursting of the shells and the heavy concussions they found themselves in a succession of air-pockets.

"Look out, Jock!" cried Dastral, as the machine rocked and swayed, banking over once or twice as though she had been hit.

For several minutes they ran the gauntlet of this heavy fire from the German A.A. guns, but the terrific speed at which they were travelling–now nearly one hundred and twenty miles per hour–soon carried them beyond the range of the enemy's guns.

Then it was that the day's work really began. Their orders were to reconnoitre behind the enemy's lines and to report by wireless code any occurrence, such as the threat of a massed attack by infantry, the moving of transport columns, or the locating of heavy artillery. It was also necessary, above all, to watch the skies for the appearance of hostile aircraft.

The other 'planes which started with the hornet that morning are seen low down on the horizon, to the north and the south. They also are searching all the terrain for any signs of activity on the part of the Boche.

Spurts of flame, like jets of fire, are seen in many places. These are the German fieldguns firing upon the British trenches. The observer does not make any particular note of these; he is out for bigger game.

Suddenly, the observer steadies his glasses, resting his arm for a moment on the side of the fuselage. The loop line of the Combles-Ginchy railway is just ahead of them and slightly on their right. Though it is very early yet, Jock notices that the line about Ginchy is crowded with traffic.

"Ahoy there, Dastral!" he calls down the speaking tube.

"Yes," comes back the laconic answer.

"Railway line blocked with traffic. Troops detraining, I think. Put her over a bit."

"Right-o!"

Dastral jams over the rudder bar with his foot and, responding to her huge tail rudder the hornet comes round in a swift circle, banking a little as the joy-stick is also put over. Then Jock takes another view, exclaiming, as he does so,

"Yes, by Jove, there must be a whole division of them. Here goes!"

And dropping the glasses into the pocket prepared for them, he rapidly uncoils the long pendant wire, and begins to tap the keys of his instrument.