“Why not explain the matter to the lieutenant?” asked Don, quite breathlessly.
Peur Jamais reflected an instant, then shook his head.
“I intended to at first,” he declared, “but, thinking it over, concluded to wait until I could arrest the old bird myself and march him over here at the point of a pistol. And, oh boy, that is going to make a bigger sensation than your cooking the big sausage.”
“But he may slip away,” suggested Don.
“That idea struck me, too,” commented Peur Jamais, in a troubled tone. “But”—he brightened up—“it will only mean that somebody else is going to do the point-of-the-pistol act. Wouldn’t it make a dandy movie drama, eh? And, just to think, Donny, if it hadn’t been for old Père Goubain I might never have known what was going on.” Bobby laughed joyously. “Crickets! I can hardly wait for the fireworks to begin.”
In the interest aroused by the story of the mysterious peasant, Don almost forgot his fatigue. He could not remember ever having enjoyed a supper more than he did that evening; and the sense of security and freedom from all danger as they sat around after the meal proved most pleasant and welcome.
On the following day Don Hale was in his Nieuport again, and performed the usual two patrols of two hours each over the lines without meeting with adventures.
Several weeks passed, and it was a time filled with enough narrow escapes and thrilling incidents to last even an aviator a lifetime.
At length Don Hale’s day off arrived. Late in the afternoon he seated himself comfortably by the window and spent the time in reading a book and occasionally joining in the conversation about him. The irrepressible Bobby Dunlap was in the room, as was also Jason Hamlin.
Finally the latter rose to his feet and began walking toward the door, whereupon Bobby blurted out: