"Hallo, Daventry!" shouted the wounded airman. "Don't you know me?"
Derek, astonished at hearing his name, looked intently at the man on the stretcher.
"Hanged if I do," he replied.
"Ungrateful old bean!" chortled the other. "What on earth are you doing with a tin hat? Doubly ungrateful, considering I taught you all you know about a 'bus."
"You're not Rippondene?" enquired Derek incredulously.
"What's left of me," was the nonchalant reply. "I think I'm right in supposing that I'm half a leg short, although I can swear that I can feel the missing toes tingling like billy-ho. There's one thing to be thankful for: that leg was a source of trouble since I crashed at Armentières in March, '15. It won't worry me again, and with a cork leg I'll be able to wangle a rudder-bar. Hope the war isn't over by the time I'm pushed out of hospital."
Rippondene, now a Flight-Commander, had had many adventures since relinquishing the post of instructor at Torringham. In spite of certain physical disabilities he had gained well-earned promotion, and was "down" for participation in the elaborately-perfected scheme for bombing Berlin. Then, owing to exigencies on the Western Front, he had been ordered to France, and had performed excellent work in the operations during the great German offensive and the greater German retreat.
[Illustration: IN A COUPLE OF STRIDES HE OVERTOOK THE MAJOR, AND BORE HIM BACKWARDS TO THE EARTH]