The northern horizon, which for some time had been growing more and more indistinct, finally disappeared, and the dull, greeny-black sea merged into the grey canopy of the sky. Biggles leaned out of the cockpit of his Vandal amphibian1 aeroplane, pushed up his goggles, and peered ahead anxiously. For a full minute he stared, and a frown creased his forehead as he looked back at Algy Lacey, sitting in the second pilot’s seat beside him.
‘I don’t like it!’ he shouted above the roar of the engine. ‘That stuff’ll start coming down presently.’ He jerked his head at the forbidding cloud-mass above.
Algy indicated that he had heard by a grimace of annoyance. ‘Typical English weather,’ he reflected. The sun had been shining from a cloudless, blue, autumn sky when Biggles had rung him up that mor
