"Hands up," he called, nonplussed at the German-looking figure rushing towards him. I threw his old phrase at him: "Fly high and good luck, old man." Then his arm dropped.
"The voice is Jefson's, sure enough," he said, "but the darned mug licks me."
"Wait till I cover up the mo'," I said, putting my hand over my mouth.
"Well, old chap, shall we drop a 'cough drop'?" I asked; and he nearly wrung my arm off.
"I fell near here three nights ago," he explained, "engine trouble—and, although it's enemy's country I don't like to burn the old 'bus, so I've backed its tail as far as I could into the bush and am screening the exposed part with bushes so that it won't be spotted from aloft. There's not much wrong with it, rather a bad strip of the fabric ripped off as I was coming down, but I struck an abandoned farm yesterday a mile from here, and when I cover up the jigger, I'm just going over to see if I can fossick out something to patch her up."
"I guess I know where your strip of fabric is," I said.
I then told him of the white mark on the tree and how it led me to him, and as we went to salvage it, he told me of the mighty doings of the war.
"Let me see," he said, "you went out on your Zep. raid last February? Well, lots have happened since.
"Shortly after that Germany started to blockade England with submarines to starve her out, and began to sink all sorts of ships. They bagged a fine and large lot including some Americans—just sunk 'em on sight, asking no questions."
"Did America buck up, Nap?" I asked.