“That's right. But you can't make these delightful Frenchmen see anything the way you want 'em to. Once they get a notion in their heads that you've done something for la belle Frame, they're your friends for life, kissing you on both cheeks and pinning medals on you wherever they'll stick.”
“Well, they mean all right, Jack,” said Tom. “And there aren't any braver or more lovable people on the face of the earth than these same French. They've done more and suffered more for their country than we dream of. And it's only natural that they should say 'much obliged,' in their own particular way, to any one they think is helping to free them from the Germans.”
“I suppose you're right. But advancing us to sergeants would have been enough, without pinning the decorations on us and mentioning us in the order of the day, as well as giving us as fine a citation as ever was signed by a commanding general. However, it's all in the day's work, though when we flew over the German super cannons, and did our bit in helping demolish them so they couldn't shell Paris any more, we didn't think—or, at least, I didn't—that we'd be sitting here talking about it.”
“Me either,” agreed Tom. “But, to get down to brass tacks, what have you been doing to get into such a mess? You look like a chauffeur of the old days they tell of when they had to climb under the car to see if it needed oiling—”
“That's just about what I have been doing,” admitted Jack. “When I heard the rumor that our escadrille might get orders to move at any hour, I decided that it was up to me to look MY machine over. It didn't make that nose dive just the way I wanted it to the last time I was up, and I'm not taking any chances. So I've been crawling in and around and under it—”
“While I've been lying here I taking it easy!” broke in Tom. “I don't call that fair of you, Jack,” and he seemed genuinely hurt.
“Go easy now, my pickled onion!” laughed his chum. “I wasn't going to leave you out in the cold. I just came to tell you that you'd better stop looking like a moving picture of an airman, and put on some old duds to look over your own craft. And here you go and—”
“All right, old ham sandwich!” laughed Tom.
“I'll forgive you. I'm going to do the same as you, and tinker
with my machine. If, as you say, we're likely to be on the job again
soon, I don't want too take any chances either. Where's that mechanician
of mine? There was something wrong with my joy stick, he said, the last
time I came down out of the clouds to take an enforced rest, and I might
as well start with that, if there's any repairing to be done—”
Tom flung off his uniform jacket, with the two silver wings, denoting that he was a full-fledged airman, and sent an orderly to summon his chief mechanician, for each aviator had several helpers to run messages for him, as well as to see that his machine is in perfect trim.