Failing to find the desired officer, Derek turned to enquire of a goggled and leather-coated pilot who was literally smothered with grease and castor oil.
"Bless me, Daventry! Who on earth expected to run across you in this Johnny Horner hole?"
For some moments Derek stared at the apparition in perplexity, unable to recognize either the voice or its owner.
"Give it up!" he replied. "Hanged if I can fix you, George."
"What! Forgotten poor little Johnny Kaye! An' we vowed life-long friendship an' all that any-old-thing sort of tosh, old bean!"
The two pilots shook hands.
"I've been here a week on different stunts," continued Kaye. "They don't forget to work you here, by Jove! Not that I mind though. Derek, old man, I had the time of my life yesterday, when two Huns thought they had me cold. Led 'em a pretty dance, and finally persuaded them to collide. One Boche plopped fairly on top of my tail-plane, and I had cold feet pretty badly until I looped and let him slide off. The funny thing was that I hadn't a single round of ammunition left. How long have you been here? You were asking for the Equipment Officer, I believe. There's his show. Smithers is his name. He'll fix you up with anything you want, from a double-seater to a cotter-pin."
Linking arms with Kaye, Derek made his way by means of a duck-board track to the Nissen but wherein the Equipment Officer held court. Smithers was a grey-haired lieutenant of fifty, who, heart and soul devoted to his work, was obsessed by the idea that he was the one and only man who did any real work in the aerodrome.
"State your wants briefly," he began, before Derek could say a word. "I'm terribly busy."
Derek did so. The Equipment Officer consulted a board festooned with red, blue, and yellow tabs.