“Makes one sort of sorry for the Hun, doesn’t it?” said one musingly.
“George,” said another, “ask him what that doo-hickie on the muzzle of his gun’s for.” He indicated a detail on the mounting.
The Frenchman explained at some length, and the interpreter interpreted.
“Bon!” said the squadron commander.
“Oui,” said the Frenchman, “tres bon! You ’ave not eet—cette—comment dites vous?—doo-hickie? No?”
“No,” was the reply, “mais nous blooming well allons——”
The Frenchman presently climbed back into his machine and took his departure. The squadron commander summoned his chief armourer, and for a while deep called to deep.
“He’s a red-hot lad, that Frenchman,” said the squadron commander, when the chief armourer had gone. “I fancy he only came down to let us see that doo-hickie of his on his gun. You ought to hear some of his yarns, though.”
The Stranger within the Gates of the Navy-that-Flies gazed after the aerial speck against the blue of heaven, and his soul was glad within him, because it was all the purest Navy.
“That’s all right,” he said. “But what I should like to know is, what the deuce is a doo-hickie?”