"Going out for a little spin, Orry?" queried Blaine, throwing open wider the hangar door. "Look at 'em! Ain't they beauts?"
There was a row of eight of these snug-built machines, all the same type and monogram, all with machine guns strapped solidly to the fuselage of each, and with motors of great power and pliability.
"You can do anything with these chaps," remarked Milt, "except fly to the moon. But these motors would take you a long way. As for stunts like diving, circling, dipping, playing dead and the like, you never saw the like. I only hope we go out soon. I learn there's a new raid on the taps."
Blaine was nosing about one of the machines that was like the others, only a trifle larger and had an observer's seat behind the pilot's.
"That's your, Sergeant?" queried Erwin, slightly emphasizing the last word.
"Bet your bottee wootees, Corporal!" Another slight emphasis on the last word. "As for yours, take your pick. They're all exactly alike. We must go into preliminary practice today."
For an answer Erwin mechanically rolled out the machine he had first examined, and prepared for a short flight.
"After all, all, these are much like the planes we used at Vimy last year."
"Some improvements and stronger motors added thought," said Blaine.
"Going to give it a try-out?"
"Yep! Thought I'd like to get my hand in a bit before we go out in squad formation." He nimbly vaulted into his seat over the rim of the fuselage, or the body of the machine, as two mechanics pushed forward behind the wings.