“Great Caesar’s bald-headed nanny-goat!” ejaculated Bobby. “Where’s my suit-case? I think I’ll go home with Drugstore.”
“I shouldn’t blame you,” laughed Don.
“‘By the time I made this startling discovery the foremost had opened fire with his machine gun. And the first thing I knew bullets were ripping through my plane.’”
“I don’t think I’ll wait for my suitcase, after all!” exclaimed Peur Jamais. “Whew! What did George do to them for that?”
“The next chapter is as follows,” said Don:
“‘I threw my plane into the vrille, and the next shots sped over my head. That might not have saved me, either, had it not been that some of the boys, seeing my predicament, literally sailed into the Germans.’”
“Poor child!” cried Bobby. “By this time I really ought to be half-way to the station.”
Don continued:
“‘From now on I expect things to be more dangerous than usual, which is saying a good bit. I will write again soon if—though I will say au revoir.’”
“I can’t say the prospect looks so very enchanting,” confessed Bobby. “But, as the French say, ‘C’est la guerre!’ And that means it isn’t any pink tea affair, eh?”