“You seem to find it hard to keep away from my company. There are other Franco-American Squadrons.”
“Thank you for your charming and subtle intimation,” rejoined Hamlin, dryly. “Let me say, however, that I pulled every wire I could so that I might have the pleasure of joining this squadron.”
“Frightfully agreeable, I’m sure!” muttered Gilbert, turning away.
“I say, Peur Jamais,” exclaimed Don Hale, some time later, “how is the Sherlock Holmes business getting on?”
Bobby wagged his head mysteriously.
“Maybe I’m on the trail of something, and maybe I’m not,” he responded. “What do I think it is? To quote a classical remark: ‘I have nothing to say at this time.’ Bombs aren’t the only things that make explosions. Now let us drop the mystery.”
“That’s better than dropping a bomb,” laughed Don.
“That depends upon where you drop it,” chirped Bobby. “But, believe me, Donny, that Hamlin person is some flyer. He’d make an eagle so ashamed of himself that he’d swear off flying and stay on the ground forever. I believe he could almost fly by waving his arms in the air.”
“Wish I could!” sighed Don. “It would come in mighty handy if a fellow’s plane were shot away from him while he was five miles in the air.”
Often pilots when off duty gathered in the bureau, or office, where reports were turned in and other necessary routine work of the squadron transacted. Hanging on the wall was a very large map of the sector, amazingly complete, showing the location of German aviation centres and even the points where their observation balloons were anchored. Naturally, from time to time, there were changes in the map, and the members of the squadron often found great interest in studying it and speculating as to its appearance a few months hence.