"Not according to latest reports from home," said Holcombe. "It's a rummy world," he added, breaking off on a fresh tack. "Yesterday evening I ran full tilt into you, Barcroft, and now I've just barged into this child."
"Did you bring Blimp 144A out here?" asked Farrar.
Barcroft made a deprecatory gesture with his hands.
"I'm dead off blimping," he explained. "It's not bad sport, but, somehow, there's something lacking. S'pose it's the knowledge that you're held aloft by a gas-bag. If anything goes wrong you can't 'plane down,' you know. Your only chance is to jump mighty quick, and parachutes have a knack of letting you down in more senses than one. I saw a Hun crash.... his 'chute refused to open. It wasn't a pretty sight."
"So what are you doing now?" inquired Farrar.
"Oh, now? Just yarning," replied Billy, his ivory teeth gleaming as he smiled.
"Quite so," agreed the R.N.V.R. sub. "So please carry on. You are still in the Air Service?"
"Rather," declared Barcroft emphatically. "Yes, I felt a bit fed up with the old Blimp, so I got a pal of mine up-topsides to put in a word for me. Result: I've been given a brand-new flying-boat. Had to bring her right across France without a stop, and then on here from Marseilles. Yes, with luck things ought to hum in the Mediterranean. Fritz has been having too easy a time recently—and our patrol boats haven't been idle."
"Lucky dog!" exclaimed Holcombe. "She must be a craft to be proud of."
"Like to have a look at her?" continued Billy. "She's lying off Floriana."