“Good! Frankly speaking, some of these chaps here do not.” Dorsey chuckled mirthfully. “Their efforts sound weird and wild. And sometimes it has the effect of making the moniteurs act wildly and weirdly.”
“The idea of Dorsey talking about French!” scoffed Ben Holt. “Why, he can’t even speak English. An Englishman’s the authority for that.”
“One’s shortcomings should never be mentioned in polite society,” grinned Tom. “And now, Don, while you’re over there parleying the parlez-vous we’ll get a bunch of the Oriental Wrecking Crew, the Annamites, to lift your traps.”
“As a rule, I rather object to having my things lifted,” laughed Don. “But this time it’s all right.”
“You’ll find our crowd, with a few additions equally handsome, in the big barracks—the third from the end. Now scoot.”
While Don and George didn’t exactly “scoot,” they nevertheless immediately left the group and made good time toward the building indicated. Within a few minutes they entered and were conducted by an orderly to the captain’s sanctum.
If Don had expected any effusive greeting or words of commendation for his willingness to give his services to aid the cause of France he would have been greatly disappointed. The captain, very alert and authoritative in manner, greeted the two boys in a casual, disinterested sort of way, and examined Don’s papers.
Then came the usual number of formalities and an order to report to the sergeant on the aviation field on the following morning.
Don Hale was now duly enrolled as an élève, or student pilot, in one of the most important of the great Bleriot flying schools in France.