Billy constituted himself a smelling committee of one to analyze the product in the swinging metal vessels.
“By the nearest approach,” decided the young aviator, “it is either the real thing or first cousin to it; a little closer to tan-yard aroma than is usual, perhaps, but the kind that will make the wheels go ’round.”
“Sorrow is with me if this last gift should hasten the passing of the flying men, for whom I hold a never-dying welcome.”
Touched by the words of the patriarch, and profoundly grateful for all that he had done for them, every head among the four was bared, as Macauley, in his deep voice, and with scarcely concealed emotion, returned the heartfelt thanks of the aviation party for the benefactions so freely and so generously bestowed upon them.
“That we must soon depart,” he exclaimed, “is inevitable, but no day to come will be empty of a thought of our treatment by you. Out in the hurly-burly we cannot expect to match it, yet out in the hurly-burly we belong. Peace be with you, sir.”
On ordinary occasions nothing could have restrained Canby from crying, “Hear, hear,” at such eloquence on the part of his usually blunt-spoken comrade. But Canby had a fine edge under his rough and ready manner, and he merely nodded his head in approval of the sentiment expressed.
“You are a soldier?” The aged man had evident intent of changing the subject.
“Two of us are in the service, sir,” replied Macauley, “and would answer the bugle call did we but know where it was sounding hereabouts.”
The patriarch raised his dimming eyes to the blue canopy above, a prayer on his lips.
“That all could say, ‘peace be with you,’” he muttered. Then, drawing himself up in the full measure of his tall figure, the old man, with a sweeping gesture to the south, quietly directed: