“Wasn’t that young solider a handsome boy?” queried one of the girls admiringly, as the car flew along the level road. “And what lovely blue eyes he had.”
“Yes, and that boy with the light hair was nice-looking, too,” chimed in Helen. “He had such a frank way of looking you right in the eye. I’ll warrant you he’s no coward.”
But the cherries and the boys in the “chow” quarters were forgotten as the girls drove by a group of buglers, who were sitting on the grass near a large tent, practicing on their bugles. Every eye was curiously watchful as the three cars went slowly past, for Mrs. Morrow, who was driving, had slowed up as she saw “the camp alarm-clocks,” as she called them. Every head was bent forward and eyes grew big with alertness, for had the girls not set out that morning with the avowed intention of not missing anything worth seeing, and surely a group of soldier buglers was an interesting feature of the camp.
They were a merry-eyed crowd, those boys with their happy, care-free faces under the brown hats with their gay-colored cords. All on undress parade, Helen declared, as she noted their brown flannel blouses and belts, as they knelt or stood upon the grass, blowing on their golden horns as Captain Molly called their brass instruments.
Evidently they were not worrying about going overseas, or losing their lives in No Man’s Land, but were good examples of live-wire American lads, with the grit inherited from their ancestors, the Yanks, inspiring them to make good when called by Uncle Sam to the job of making war.
The girls were alert and watchful, as they spied into open tents, or behind flying flaps, at the rows of tiny white cots, or at a few stray articles of clothing seen here and there, yes, even a pair of shoes set out in the sun to dry were objects of their silent adoration as they swung along the road.
But now the scene had changed as they whirled along, for, instead of tents, the streets were lined with little wooden houses, or cabins, the barracks of the United States Aviation School at Mineola, which adjoined Camp Mills. A stop at the hostess house was next in order, where a call was sent in for Dick.
Twenty minutes later Nathalie was blithesomely happy, as she and her brother, over in a corner of the little wooden building, chatted about home news,—how mother was getting along, yes, and about the wonderful events that had occurred in the last few days. Then Nathalie turned inquisitor, and Dick was subjected to a series of questions in regard to his life as a war-eagle. In fact Nathalie’s questions were so many and so swiftly put that her brother declared that one would have thought that he was being interviewed by some expert reporter.
Yes, reveille was at five in the morning, followed in half an hour by breakfast. His sister immediately asked, somewhat anxiously, if he got enough to eat.
“You bet your life I do,” was Dick’s laughing rejoinder. “The ‘eats’ are O. K.—nothing to be added. At six,” he continued, “I report at headquarters for flying, and then, with an instructor, learn a few flying stunts. I return to barracks at ten, and from eleven until two-thirty have a ‘do-as-you-please time,’ which includes luncheon, and, generally, a nap, for, by Jove!” exclaimed the young aviator, “this flying business makes a fellow feel drowsy.