"You don't look it," says I, grinnin'.
He shrugs his shoulders.
"Fact, old man," says he. "I'm the one you were sent to watch for—Lieutenant Donald Allen, 26th Flying Corps Division, Squadron B."
"Pleased to meet you," says I.
"No doubt," says he. "Have a cigarette?" We lights up from the same match. "But say," he adds, "it was just a piece of tough luck, your catching me in this fix. "
"Oh, I ain't so sure," says I.
"Of course," he says, "it won't go with the C. O. But really, now, what are you going to do when your observer insists that he's dying? I couldn't tell. Perhaps he was. Right in the middle of a perfect flight, too, the chump! Motor working sweet, air as smooth as silk, and no cross currents to speak of. But, with him howling about this awful pain in his tummy, what else could I do? Had to come down and—— Well, here we are. I'm behind the lines, I suppose, and you'll report my surrender."
"Then what?" I asks.
"Oh," says Allen, "as soon as I persuade this trolley-car aviator, Martin, that he isn't dead, I shall load him into the old bus and cart him back to Mineola."
"Wha-a-t!" says I. "You—you're goin' back to Mineola—to-night?"