CHAPTER III.
FAREWELL TO THE FACTORY.
An archduke had been killed on Servian soil, and war had raised its dreadful shadow over stricken Liège. The gray legions of the Kaiser were worrying the throat of France. From the far-off valley of the Meuse came a call of distress for Henri Trouville.
Billy Barry was very busy that day with the work of constructing hollow wooden beams and struts, and had just completed an inspection of a brand-new monoplane which the factory had sold to a rich young fellow who had taken a fancy to the flying sport. Coming out of the factory, he met his chum and flying partner. Henri did not wear his usual smile. With downcast head and his hands clasped behind him he was a picture of gloom.
“Hello, Henri, what’s hurting you?” was Billy’s anxious question.
“Billy boy,” Henri sadly replied, “it’s good night to you and the factory for me. I’m going home.”
“Say, Buddy,” cried Billy, holding up his arm as though to ward off a shock, “where did you get your fever? Must have been overwarm in your shop to-day.”
“It’s straight goods,” persisted Henri. “The world has fallen down on Trouville and I’ve got to go back and find what is under it.”
Billy with a sob in his voice: “Old pal, if it’s you—then it’s you and me for it. I don’t care whether it’s mahogany, ash, spruce, lance-wood, black walnut or hickory in the frame, we’ll ride it together.”
“Oh, Billy!” tearfully argued Henri; “it’s a flame into which you’d jump—and—and—it wouldn’t do at all. So, be a good fellow and say good-by right here and get it over.”