They flew the air as they willed, in monoplanes and biplanes, singly or doubly, and, as usual, at the same time these boys managed to fly together into some of the ticklish affairs of earth.
It was on a Sunday morning that a jolly party of sailors came over from the harbor to the air camp, and, as they were all supposed to be “true blue,” or, rather, “true gray,” they were permitted to poke their noses into the hangars without restraint.
Billy and Henri, as the chief aviators present, were counted in as part of the exhibit, and delegated to represent the lieutenant, who claimed this one day for late slumber.
One of the sailors, while he and his comrades were watching the aërial maneuvers of a Zeppelin, had picked standing room as near to our Aviator Boys as he could conveniently get. So enthusiastic was this man over the majestic flight of the big airship that he grasped the hand of the nearest member of the flying profession, which proved to be Henri.
There was something more than the mere pressure of the shake, however, for Henri’s fingers closed over a wad of paper.
The sailor kept on cheering, but he did not keep on standing in the same spot.
The paper wad lay in an itching palm, for the holder was itching to open it.
He knew the man who had “delivered the mail!”
Billy also had something of an acquaintance with the bubbling sailor.
When the boys jointly read the faint tracing of the tissue message they could not comprehend all that it was intended to convey. That understanding was to come later.