“We’re in our planes shortly after dawn. At nine o’clock the first session is over; then it’s back to the barracks. Dinner is served at one o’clock, and after that the boys are free to do what they please until five. On our return to the piste, or flying field, we usually keep steadily at it until nearly dark.”
“How does it happen that so many are here at this hour?”
“Oh, this crowd only represents a small portion of the students who, for one reason or another, stopped work a bit early,” replied Hampton. “In all, we have about one hundred and twenty-five men, and among them are several Russians—daring chaps they are, too, but rather poor flyers.”
“But the Americans seem pretty good at it, eh?”
Hampton Coles laughed.
“The moniteurs are always bawling out some of the best élèves for doing unnecessary and risky stunts,” he declared. “I imagine they think we’re a reckless, hair-brained lot. However”—his tone suddenly sobered; his eyes were turned thoughtfully off into the distance—“it doesn’t do to take many chances in the air. It’s mighty tricky; and so are the machines. Some of our boys have already paid the penalty. Yes, it’s a dangerous game, son.”
“Which only makes it a lot more interesting,” put in Drugstore, quietly.
“To be sure!” laughed Coles. “But, as this rig o’ mine is getting to feel prominent, I’ll skip.”
Jack Norworth presently sauntered over to tell Don that in order to get a bed he would have to go to the commissary depot, about a half mile distant.
“I’ll hoof it with you,” he volunteered.