Victor Gilbert, who happened to be among the crowd, remarked in English:
“It’s too bad that the laboring classes should be so uneducated. And the lack of training dwarfs what intelligence they have, so that their minds fail to grasp even simple things.”
The others agreed with him.
But, at any rate, they found the visit of the farmer a pleasant diversion, and all were really sorry when he said good-bye and started for the door.
“That old chap is about the limit,” growled T. Singleton Albert. “Talk about ignorance! It’s a positive wonder he has enough sense to find his way home.”
“And just think!—the poor fellow understands only French,” chirped Bobby Dunlap.
Drugstore was about to retort, when the entrance of several pilots stopped him.
The newcomers had something to tell, too, which aroused a great deal of interest—several of them had had thrilling encounters with Captain Baron Von Richtofen’s Red Squadron of Death.
“I feel sure the Baron was there himself,” declared one. “The way those planes were handled was simply marvelous. I thought I had certainly winged a Boche when he went into the vrille; and I swooped down after him for about two thousand feet, intending to make sure of it. But, in some extraordinary manner, he got his plane under control, and before I could realize it I was shooting below him and his bullets were humming a tune past my ears.”
“Oh, boy, that is music I don’t like to hear!” said Bobby, with a perceptible shiver.