Harry Leroy was, like Tom and Jack, an American aviator who had lately joined the force in which the two friends had rendered such valiant service. Tom and Jack had known him on the other side—had, in fact, first met and become friendly with him at a flying school in Virginia. Leroy had suffered a slight accident which had put him out of the flying service for a year, but he had persisted, had finally been accepted, and was welcomed to France by his chums who had preceded him.
“I hope nothing has happened to Harry,” murmured Tom; “but I don't see him, and it's queer Du Boise would come back without him.”
“Maybe he had to—for gasoline or something,” suggested Jack.
“I hope it isn't any worse than that,” went on Tom. But his voice did not carry conviction.
The French aviator landed, and as he climbed out of his machine, helped by orderlies and others who rushed up, he was seen to stagger.
“Are you hurt?” asked Tom, hurrying up.
“A mere scratch-nothing, thank you,” was the answer.
“Where's Harry Leroy?” Jack asked. “Did you have to leave him?”
“Ah, monsieur, I bring you bad news from the air,” was the answer. “We were attacked by seven Boche machines. We each got one, and then—well, they got me—but what matters that? It is a mere nothing.”
“What of Harry?” persisted Tom.