"Does he want to see us now?" asked Ralph.
"Yes; he is able to see you now," was the answer.
Entering the hospital they were directed to a row of cots, patient C, 28. Before them was a man with a bandaged head, and an arm stretched across the bed, held straight with a splint.
"I don't suppose you recognize me?" said the man.
Alfred looked closer and slowly shook his head.
"I am told that you and your friend piloted my car and another through that storm in Devil's Cut," he said.
"Oh, I know you now," said Ralph. "Well, we couldn't do anything else, could we?"
"Well, I want to thank you, and tell you that you have made a friend who will never forget you. I remember the conversation with you before we had our little accident," he continued, addressing Alfred. "We need young men of your stamp, and I will keep you in mind and act as soon as I am able to move about."
Incidents of this kind are always the subjects of conversation among hospital internes. They seem to crave excitement, and like to talk about exceptional exploits. That the boys were volunteers and Americans at that, lately in the aviation corps, bearing honorable discharges for valuable services rendered, was certainly worthy of comment.
It was with some surprise that they were directed by the orderly to take possession of a tent, and assigned to a mess made up of the clerks of the warehouse. There they found several other young men, and during the two weeks they remained, were general favorites with every one in the government employ.