The Scout makes no question of Ays or Noes,
But right or left, as banks the Pilot, goes
And he who dropped One down into the Field—
He knows about it all—he knows, he knows!
Here with a Dud Machine, if Winds allow,
A Flask of Wine, a Load of Bombs—and Thou
Before me sitting in the Second Seat—
A Midnight Raid is Paradise enow.
And when I turn upon the Homeward Trail,
Dreaming of Decorations, Cakes and Ale,
How bitter on the First Day’s Leave to find
My Name spelt wrongly in the “Daily Mail!”
“Ah!” protested my love. “You really don’t take it with sufficient seriousness, Claude!”
“I do,” was my quick protest. “I am not worrying about failure: I am only anticipating success.”
“Do not be over sanguine, dear, I beg of you.”
“I never have been,” was my reply. “To-morrow I shall make the first test in the air—and you shall come with me, as I have for so long promised.”
Chapter Seventeen.
Not Counting the Cost.
From our aviation map—a plan of the country unfamiliar to most people—we had ascertained that about fourteen miles away, in a direct line due east from Holly Farm, and about three miles beyond the little town of Mayfield, lay a small village called Stockhurst.