“But—but—you didn’t actually come all the way from the front, Lieutenant Thaw, did you?” almost stuttered T. Singleton Albert, whose eyes were fixed with strange intensity on the trim, though mud-bespattered little Nieuport.
“Oh, yes! Had quite a scrap, too, just before leaving. Did I get the Boche?” Lieutenant Thaw smiled genially. “No. I think that particular Teuton must have had faith in the old adage that ‘He who fights and runs away may live to fight another day.’ Now, boys, I suppose it’s quite safe for me to leave the machine here until I return?”
Being assured that it was, the aviator, with a wave of his hand, started trudging through the soggy field toward the commandant’s office.
By this time Don Hale and Albert were making a close examination of the Nieuport. Both took a look at the cockpit, beautifully finished in hard wood, and at the upholstered pilot’s seat, and studied the brightly-shining nickel-plated instruments which tell the pilot practically everything he needs to know while in the air.
There was something else, too,—an ominous-looking something else—which attracted and held their interest—a Vickers machine gun, the firing of which is so perfectly timed that the bullets fly between the whirling propeller blades.
To Don Hale, and, doubtless, to many others, that weapon, catching and reflecting numerous gleams of light, was almost awe-inspiring. And, to add to these feelings, they presently discovered several bullet holes in both the upper and lower planes, silent and eloquent testimonials of the perils which always face the intrepid and courageous fighters of the air.
At first Albert had been quite talkative—that is for him; then, as he walked around the machine, studying every detail with the same interest that a connoisseur might have displayed in the contemplation of a rare and priceless piece of statuary, he suddenly became silent. Finally his mild, unassuming air deserted him, and, straightening up, he exclaimed, loudly:
“Fellows, I’ve changed my mind. Nobody is ever going to call me a quitter. I’m not going to leave the school after all. No, sir! I’ll keep at the flying game; and, by George, I’ll get to the front, too.”
Following his sudden and almost vehement outburst, there came a silence.
But it was quickly broken. And as loud as had been the cheering for the visiting aviator it distinctly held second place to that which greeted T. Singleton Albert’s unexpected declaration.