They are not given to talking over-much of their achievements in the hearing of a stranger within their gates. The second youngest of the trio admitted, contemplating his cow-hide boots, to have “done-in” twelve hostile machines in single combat—and lapsed into agonised silence.
“Of course,” said the third, coming to the rescue of a comrade in palpable distress, “N., the star Frenchman, is the fellow to talk if you want to hear some good yarns.” The speaker had the grave, sweet face of a mediæval knight, and the owner of the cow-hide boots shot him a swift glance of gratitude.
“He’s done-in fifty Huns,” he confirmed, nodding.
It was on the following day, as it happened, that Fate introduced the Frenchman to the Stranger within the Gates of the Navy-that-Flies. The flying man landed on one of the aerodromes of the Navy-that-Flies, a florid-faced young man, chubby and blue-eyed. The squadron strolled out to greet him with ready hospitality and hero-worship.
“Bon jour, N.,” said the squadron commander. “How goes it?”
The famous French fighting pilot swung himself out of his machine and pulled off his gauntlet. He wore, in addition to the regulation flying helmet, a bright-blue muffler wound with many turns round the lower part of his face, and a soiled aquascutum with a row of medal-ribbons reaching half-way across his breast. The wind fluttered its skirts, disclosing a pair of tight red breeches above top-boots of a light yellow. As an additional protection against the cold his feet were encased in fur moccasins. He greeted the Navy-that-Flies in rapid French and threw their ranks into some disorder.
“Translate, George,” said the squadron commander.
“He says he’s on sick leave,” explained one of the hosts. “He’s just flying to keep his eye in. He scuppered five Boches last week.”
“Si,” said the Frenchman, nodding, and held up his hand with outstretched fingers, “Cinq!”
“Good on you, old sport,” said the squadron commander. They shook hands again, and the remainder clustered rather curiously round the sinister machine with the black skull and cross-bones adorning its fusilage.