Don Hale With the Flying Squadron
CHAPTER I—THE GREENHORN
A rickety-looking cab, containing two passengers and much luggage, and driven by a gray-haired cocher, drew slowly up to a high iron gate and came to a halt. And the wheels had scarcely stopped before two young chaps, with exclamations of deep satisfaction and relief, literally tumbled out of the ancient vehicle and stared about them.
“Well, Don, here we are at last!” cried the elder.
“Yes, George. And this is certainly one of the greatest moments of my life. Tomorrow I start my training to become a pilot,” exclaimed the other, such a degree of enthusiasm expressed in his tone as to make the wrinkled cab driver turn, survey him with a curious grin, and comment in the French tongue:
“I guess that’s the way most of them act until something happens.”
But the boys scarcely heard him.
Surmounting the iron gate, inside of which an armed sentry was slowly pacing, this inscription in large, bold letters, stood out against the sky:
“École d’Aviation Militaire de Beaumont.”
“I certainly hope the Boches won’t get you, young monsieur,” continued the driver. “But, if you don’t mind, I’d be glad if you’d will your life insurance to me.”