“Who are those men?” the question ran around.
“Ground school men,” was the reply, and the ex-ambulanciers immediately joined together in one clique against the others.
Now Tommy was meeting a new division in the ranks of the flyers—those who had not only been to ground school, but had had preliminary flying training in the States.
He inquired after various of his friends, only to find that they had been transferred to a more advanced field; and, realizing that more than an hour still remained before supper, he started down the road toward a house he had noticed when the truck brought him to the field. Perhaps he might find a drink there, and possibly some one he knew. He was cold and shivering and thought longingly of the woolen underwear sent him by an aunt, which was buried in his trunk. For years he had worn nothing but so-called athletic underwear, but the time had evidently come to change.
He approached the house, a solitary farm, but still somehow suggestive of liquid refreshment. The door stood open hospitably, and he walked in. His nose had not deceived him, for though there was no one in the room, a small bar stood along one end, and when the gnarled, stooped lady of the establishment came in, he ordered a glass of rum. The strong liquor warmed him.
There was a puttering roar outside, and a motorcycle pulled up at the door. Tommy observed the evident agitation of the Madame with surprise. Then a man with a hard face came inside. He looked at Tommy threateningly.
“Have a drink,” invited the little pilot in friendly tones.
He hated to drink alone, even if he was cold. The other, who wore a brassard around his arm like a stretcher bearer in the French army, agreed in a surly manner. Tommy wondered who the fellow was as he gulped his drink, and waited to see if the other would return the compliment, as was in vogue in those days. He didn’t, and Tommy turned to leave.
“Hey, feller,” said the surly one. “Guess I’ll have another one.”
“Sure, if you like,” answered Tommy, surprised.