"Well, well, Orry! How do you feel after your stunts of yesterday?"
This from Sergeant Blaine as he jumped from his bunk in the aerodrome dormitory the following morning just as the dawn was breaking.
Erwin, still drowsing, opened one eye. The next instant, remembering what the day probably hold in store for him, he threw off the covers and leapt from his bunk. At the same time, in order impress Blaine with his general fitness, he hit the big Sergeant a mock blow on the midwind region where, according to ring history, Fitzsimons dropped Corbett in their historic championship fight. Then he sprang back, arms and fists feinting.
"Can't you see how I feel?" he retorted. "Want to try me more?"
"Nit, you shyster, nit!" Blaine was laughing as he recovered, retreating and grimacing, as if in mock misery. "I don't want no more solar plexus stuff at this stage of the game. I guess you're all right."
"Bet your thick cocoanut I am! I was a bit drowsy at first. Say,
Lafe, you know I must be in on this, whatever it is."
"Sure! I was at first a bit afraid that all those air stunts might have frazzled you a little, seeing you are just out of hospital."
"Honest Injun, Lafe, I'm all right! Don't you forget to remember that!"
"Well, then, get your clothes on. I want to talk to you private like." And Blaine sauntered off, lighting, a cigarette, while Erwin hastily put on his clothes. Going out soon, he encountered Blaine on the parade before the hangars where the starting of planes usually began.
It promised to be a lovely day. Not a cloud was in the sky. Off to the east a lone airplane was, soaring high over No-Man Is-Land, doubtless one of the night scouts that are maintained along that portion of the front.