one, freshly posted, which said, "Look out for the Yankees!" He jumped into an automobile and began trailing the man who was posting, tearing off the posters as he came up to them. He finally caught up with the man himself, and, jumping out of his machine as the bill-poster was stooping down to get one of his placards, he seized his paste-bucket and dumped the contents over the man's head! No more of these posters were put up.

It seemed as if the whole city of Montevideo was given up to our men's entertainment during the two weeks of their stay. The words of the Minister of Public Instruction to me seemed fairly expressive of the way all the people felt: "I want you to understand that this is no official reception. This is a reception by the people themselves. I have been working for closer relations between my country and yours for thirty years, but I never imagined it was possible for such a spontaneous expression of love and sympathy to be given by any Latin-American nation to the United States. What men you have sent us! It is very natural that sailors, after they have been at sea a long time, should be somewhat rowdy when they get to shore, but I have not heard of one disagreeable incident in the whole time that they have been with us. They have been models of morality for our own young men. And your Admiral! Certainly if you had looked all over the Nation you could not have found one more simpatico! The most popular man in Uruguay to-day is not the President of the Republic, or any other of our prominent citizens, but it is Admiral Caperton."

After the visit to Montevideo and Buenos Aires the fleet returned to Rio de Janeiro, the first point that it touched in

THE FREDERICK, ADMIRAL CAPERTON'S FLAGSHIP IN SOUTH AMERICAN WATERS

was to know you to realize that these fears were groundless. We see what your real heart is, and now know that you desire the good of all America."

The Young Men's Christian Association not only changed the boys' money for them, directed them where to make their purchases and where interesting sights could be seen, but also stationed men in the undesirable parts of town to suggest to the boys other more attractive places. One of these friends told me of seeing a fine-appearing young fellow looking around in what is called the "red light "district. Going up to him, he inquired if there was any one back home whom he would be ashamed to have know that he was in this district. The man replied: "Yes, I have a wife and little baby at home." The friend said: "Did you know that they are giving a very fine entertainment to-night at the Young Men's Christian Association hall?" "Is that so? What's the number of that hall?" asked the young fellow; and off he went in the direction indicated. At least half a dozen times during the next ten days that young man hunted up his new-found friend to thank him for saving him from a terrible danger which might have made his entire life different.

The following incident shows how our English cousins cooperated in the fleet's reception. Latin-Americans have a great custom of pasting posters on street corners to express their pleasure or displeasure with public events. They had posted many very fine "Welcome" signs around in Montevideo. One of them was as follows: "The Banner of the Sun salutes the Banner of the Stars. The sun is a star; the stars are suns. (The Uruguayan flag has the sun in a white field.) An English friend, who was one of the most prominent business men of the city, was on the lookout for the opposite kind of posters. And, sure enough, the night before the fleet arrived he found

THE FOOTBALL SQUAD OF THE SOUTH DAKOTA READY TO DEMONSTRATE THE NORTH AMERICAN GAME TO MONTEVIDEO

South America. There it had a second magnificent reception. The last night before leaving I had the privilege of taking dinner with Admiral Caperton and Ambassador Morgan, the latter also a most important factor in bringing about these new friendships. The Admiral, who very seldom makes a speech, told us that night how proud he was of the way the men had conducted themselves, and added that a large part of this was due to the Young Men's Christian Association's work. He spoke of the great impression the common sailors had made on the people of Buenos Aires. He told of a leading society lady who came to him at a reception one evening and asked if he could send her twenty of the sailor boys to dine at her home the next evening. He agreed. Several evenings afterward, on another social occasion, the same lady came to him and asked if he could send a party of forty boys to dine with her. I could not help saying, when my turn came to speak, that while the Admiral had told us about the one lady who wanted to entertain forty of our sailors, he had not told us of the forty ladies who had wanted to entertain one Admiral! Admiral Caperton, as I have already suggested, conducted himself with such tact and sympathy and wisdom that the visit of his fleet to South America will, I am confident, prove of the greatest importance in cementing our friendship with our sister republics.

Admiral Caperton and our boys are still in South American waters. The last word I had was that the fleet was witnessing and taking part in one of the numerous patriotic celebrations of the South American people. Its commander and his splendid force are not only patrolling the South Atlantic to protect South American shipping, but are constantly reminding our South American friends that we are living and fighting for the things that are as dear to them as they are to us.

C

NAPTAIN PIERON, as narrated in the previous chapter (published in The Outlook of February 6), began to read with absorbing interest the pages that told him that his friend Arnold Adair, long mourned as dead, was yet in the land of the living--but what land?

Not a soul [the letter began] knows the details of my sudden disappearance and the still more extraordinary experiences that followed it on the morning our squadron flew over Verdun to the north with the Vaubecourt and Bar-le-Duc Escadrilles. That was September 24, a clear, sunny day up aloft, but misty and foggy close to the ground, if you remember. The last man I saw of my squadron was Arrowdale. He was with me when I shot down my Fokker, but he left me and beat it after the other Fritz when he saw I had landed my bird. You must have wondered what happened to me. This is the first chance I have had to get a word through to you. But let me begin at the beginning, which was really a month or so before the day I disappeared.

It was some time in August, then, on the sultry afternoon that we were up over the Cambrai-St. Quentin country--you, Arrowdale, Green, and myself-that my story begins. I lost you fellows that day somewhere in the clouds, for I was up some twenty thousand feet and there were cloud banks all the way down. The four of us had come over to take a look and see if we couldn't get a Boche over some of their airdromes around Cambrai, you remember.

We hadn't seen a sign of hostile aircraft anywhere, and, I suppose, you others turned back, but I kept on by myself, going in deeper, though I knew there was little chance of seeing anything through all those clouds. Finally I discovered that it was getting late and I was getting numb with cold.

I decided to call it a day and go in, so, banking around to the right, I lined up with my compass and skimmed along the tops of the clouds, playing roller-coaster up and over the project ing ridges which occasionally stuck up above the level of the highway. I was keeping my machine ready to sink down into the concealment of the clouds if any enemy squadron should suddenly pop up in front of me.

As I was droning swiftly along I suddenly passed over a deep hole through the floor. I could see the warm sunshine flooding the brown landscape away below me. I shoved over the control and cut off the engine and shot straight down through the open air until at about nine thousand feet I got the flash of the sun in my face and found I was below the clouds.

Almost at the same instant the gleam of a white plane below and ahead of me caught my eye. This fellow was climbing up in a spiral, and the flash of sun on his wings had sparkled just for a second as he had turned. Was he friend or enemy? Whichever he was, I determined to overhaul him if I could. Climbing back again into the shelter of the cloud shadows, I stalked him a mile or so north of him, trying to distinguish the markings on his plane and to identify his type of machine. He had a speedy one-seater biplane. He was climbing for a higher level, and I was gradually overtaking him.

A moment later I made out the heavy Maltese cross of the Kaiser painted in bold outline on each end of the top plane. The Hun was flying a Walvet scout! Here was a piece of luck for me! The Walvets were known to us only by name. They were the only type of chasing airplane used by the Germans on our front besides the familiar Fokker machine and the newer one-seater Albatros.

We had never been able to bring down a Walvet into our lines where its details of construction and its new features could be examined by our engineers. I had had numerous encounters with this machine, and knew it mounted two Maxim machine guns that fired straight ahead through the propeller. Every other side was its blind side. More than one had been shot down, but each had dropped within the enemy's lines.

I knew another bit of gossip about the Walvets' tactics, and that was that they always hunted in pairs, and they never gave battle except to a single enemy. So as soon as I made certain of my type I darted into the edge of the clouds above and looked about me carefully.

Where was the other twin? I searched the country below and the cloud-crowned ceiling above. St. Quentin spires and the windings of the Somme River lay spread out on my left. I was still thirty miles back of the trenches.

Cautious and wary of the trap for which these twin scouts are famous, I searched every fissure in the heavens behind me as I flew along, but no other airplane was in the sky. I was convinced that my sudden descent out of the clouds had not been noticed by the Walvet, and I was satisfied from his maneuvers that he was still unconscious of my presence. I abandoned all further caution then, and set my mind wholly on the problem of first getting my Walvet prize over the lines into our own territory before dropping him.

He was as fast as my Nieuport. He had the same armament, excepting that one of my rapid-fire guns was mounted on my top wing and could shoot straight upwards as well as straight ahead. I knew the Boche would dart away for home the moment he discovered me. Being alone, I couldn't hope to cut off his escape nor to drive him ahead of me if he wanted to get away. I must make a diving attack and then tempt him to follow me by some subterfuge. I didn't possess a great variety of subterfuges, so it did not occupy much time to select one.

Reaching up to the overhead Lewis, I dropped one cartridge into the chamber and then removed the magazine entirely, placing it in its rack. After shooting the one cartridge to attract his attention, I intended to work the firing mechanism frantically to give the Hun an impression that the gun was jammed and out of commission. If that did not tempt him into chasing me towards home, I determined to stall my engine and make him believe that I could not restart it. That surely would waken his cupidity, and he ought to follow me to capture me when I alighted if he had any sporting blood in him at all.

At ten thousand feet altitude I could glide without engine power for ten miles or more towards home before sinking to sealevel. Then I would have to start my motor again and think of "what next.' If the trenches were only ten miles nearer! Then indeed I might hope to get him over our lines before delivering the coup de grâce.

be

Here my clever plans were all upset by seeing the Walvet straightening out a level course to the eastward. He was a thousand feet below me and a quarter of a mile ahead. Dipping down slightly, I aimed for his tail, and, with throttle wide open, my Nieuport shot after him down the grade. As the space tween us narrowed, I determined upon my tactics. After plump ing the one shot into him I would swerve alongside him to his right and head towards our lines, giving him a full view of the trouble with my gun. If he followed me, I would climb ahead of him and risk his bullets. If he ran away instead, I would chase him and use my other gun.

In another twinkling I am on top of him and send my one bullet through the top plane over his head. I certainly gave old Heinie the surprise of his life. Perhaps I should have made certain of a bull's-eye, for it would have been an easy shot with a full magazine. But the idea of capturing the first Walvet yet brought in to our hangars held me to my crazy plan.

My swifter speed dropped me rather ahead of the startled Boche than by his side, for he swung his machine to the right upon feeling my shot, and I passed over him, with less than twenty feet separating us. Flattening out and circling still more to the right, I busied myself conspicuously with my gun with out glancing at my foe. We were flying almost parallel and headed straight for the Oise Valley to the south. I throttled down a trifle to permit him to draw ahead. But he was too old

But now-you'll think, dear Phil, I'm breaking off at the most exciting point, like the old-fashioned "continued in our next" stories-but really, to make things clear to you, I must tell you what happened on the day you last saw me-September 24!

Our squadron had been sent over to Nancy, some one hundred and sixty miles east of our late camp, you remember. That was about a month after my extraordinary meeting in the air with my old school chum, Reinhardt, which I have just described to you. I left our airdrome at daylight on the morning of September 24, with you, Captain Pieron, and twelve others of our squadron, you will remember. We were sent up in our Nieuport fighting planes to protect the reconnaissance expedition of you observers over the German lines in the Verdun section.

To none of you fellows had I mentioned the discovery of my former friend in the German Flying Corps. I didn't know just what to do about it. Reinhardt and I had spent two years together in the old school in Switzerland, several years before the war began. He was destined for Heidelberg and the customary military training, I knew, and I believed that he had been naturally pressed into the service of his country at the begin ning of the war. I had not heard from him for several months previons to the outbreak of war. His fighting in the Air Service had never occurred to me.

Among the forty-odd boys drawn together in the Verney School from a dozen different countries, Reinhardt had been my bosom friend from the day on which we first met in the gymnasium class. We were sitting together on the parallel bars the first day of school. We examined each other's gym shoes. Mine were white and his were black.

"I think I will get a pair like yours," said Reinhardt. "Won't you take these?" I replied. "I have another pair of white ones." We grinned at each other and became friends on

the spot. We sat together and had tea that afternoon, moved our chairs together at dinner, and slept in adjoining bunks the first night of our new school life. Our early allegiance withstood every assault from masters, schoolfellows, and town boys. In short, this Bavarian boy is the dearest friend I have in the world.

A curious feeling now possessed me on my daily flights into German lines after my strange meeting with this dear old school friend. The wretched thought of having already fired point-blank into Reinhardt's machine while two miles or so above earth tortured my dreams nightly. Pictures of his lithe body, which had so many times teetered before me on the end of the spring-board over the blue waters of Lake Geneva, now appeared lying mangled and lifeless under the wreck of his fallen airplane-brought crashing to earth by my machine gun! What should I do if I met a pair of Walvets-fight them or run? How could I do either and get out of the situation with a shred of satisfaction left me?

Our strange reunion in the air over St. Quentin had been of brief duration. When the first stupor of my surprise left me, I cut off my motor, and Bunny, as I called Reinhardt, did likewise. I shouted some greeting to him through the swishing air, at which he laughed, shouted back, and shook his head. It was impossible to make each other understand from our onrushing machines. Waving him good-by, I finally swerved off and restarted my motor. I landed just as the sun was setting, in such a dazed condition that my mechanics, Jean and Brownie, had stood looking after me in wonder as I walked up the lane to quarters.

To resume: On that fateful morning of September 24th when I last saw you, my dear Captain Pieron, you remember we were co-operating with two or three of our adjacent squadrons. You were piloting one of the two-seaters, with Major La Tour as your observer. We all of us had a conviction that something big was doing. As usual, we in our chasing machines climbed up to an altitude of fifteen thousand feet, and flew over to Bar-le-Duc, where we met our fellows from the adjoining flying fields. Then in one broad squadron formation we crossed the trenches, our own detachment comprising the right end.

You observing machines, the two-seaters, were ahead of us and far below. We saw the futile bursts of shrapnel all around you as you circled over the Argonne, and from there we followed you over the Woevre. The early morning mist was not yet dissipated. From our high elevation the face of the earth was quite indistinguishable.

In half an hour's time we began to circle back. Our squadron leaders were settling down to lower levels, and gradually all of our patrolling planes were dropping after them. Arrowdale and Green were still outside of me when we wheeled back again to the north. I judged we were then about over the trenches, but it was too foggy to see. Looking about for them a moment later, I discovered that both of them were speeding away to the east. I immediately banked over and opened up in pursuit of them half a mile or so in their rear.

Ahead of them and advancing across our line of flight from our right, I could see two scouting biplanes darting northwards. David Green was well up with them and was maneuvering to cut them off. I altered my course to head them, keeping my slight advantage in altitude in reserve.

"Bunny," I said to myself, "is a hundred miles from Verdun, thank God!"

They were not Walvet machines, but Fokkers. We had them beaten for speed, and with any luck at all would have one shot at them before they could get to earth. The fog was thinning in spots, but the landscape was still too hazy to permit them to select a landing field with any ease.

The chase soon developed into maneuvering tactics. We flew north, south, east, and west, and several exchanges of shots occurred. Round and round we circled, friend and enemy mixed up together at times, up and down we flew. Straight in front of the Fokkers was the only position necessary to avoid. Their two rapid-fire guns lay side by side along the top of the engine hood, pointing dead ahead.

We three Nieuports kept up the chase for half an hour or longer. The rest of you had disappeared. I suppose you twoseaters went in on account of the fog. I shot away two full magazines, but the Boches wouldn't drop.

Finally I got the position I had been waiting for, and as I came in on them I dived upon the tail of the rear Fokker, raking a row of bullet-holes across him as I approached. Great luck! I evidently cut his rudder wire, for as I climbed up to return to the attack I saw my prize spiraling around in uncontrol

lable short circles. Arrowdale was hovering around him to hold him until I could regain my position.

Down the enemy swung, obviously out of control. David and the other Fokker were streaking it southward a mile away. With a wave of his hand, Arrowdale left my crippled opponent in my care, and headed away after David. That was the last I saw of him.

Following cautiously after the falling Boche to satisfy myself that he was not shamming, I dived into his spiral path behind him. As I came abreast again I saw the doomed pilot remove his hands from the control stick and quickly extend them over his helmeted head. Bon Dieu! The next instant I am gazing again, for the second time in five years, into the now anxious eyes of my friend and my enemy-Reinhardt!

Doubting my own eyesight, I mechanically followed after the crippled machine in its gyrations. What an incredible happening! How could it be Bunny piloting a Fokker to-day, and a month ago playing his part in a Walvet team? What unfortunate coincidence had brought him away from the Somme region to the Verdun front at the same time with me? What should I do? I could not undo what I had done. It flashed across my mind that I was alone with Reinhardt, and nobody could ever know what I felt or what duty I was violating. I thought of our horseback rides together through the Black Forest; of our evenings in the music-room at Eckstein with his mother and sister; of his merry chatter across the tea-table at the Trois Couronnes. Below me I saw that the fog still hid the landmarks. I could not tell whether it was German or French territory into which he was falling. A heavy bank of fog to the west indicated a river valley, but what river? In our running fight I had given no thought to the trenches or to our position above them.

Reinhardt was controlling his motion somewhat by operating his ailerons. His rudder was jammed to the right. He had cut off his engine. The elevators were unimpaired. He could keep circling until his petrol gave out and he could spiral up and down, but he could not straighten out to make a landing. He must come a smash eventually!

I passed as close to him as I dared. He was keeping his nerve admirably. He waved one free hand to me as we spiraled downwards side by side. Our circles were not more than a hundred yards in diameter. I realized the difficulties the boy was having in keeping his airplane out of a tail spin, and I pulled away from him to avoid distracting his attention.

Suddenly an inspiration came to me. If I could only make Reinhardt understand!

I dived across his path again. Catching his attention for a brief moment, I pointed quickly downwards with my forefinger, then to myself, then again towards the earth. I intended to get into the mist below and select a landing-place for himcome what might! The next instant I was diving steeply downwards with engine wide open.

Six thousand-five thousand-four-three-and down to two thousand feet I shot my Nieuport, standing almost upright within the confines of the safety belt. I approached the fogcovered earth with more caution, for there was no telling whether lofty mountains or sunken valleys would be found beneath. Glancing back as I entered the fog, I could barely make out the outline of Reinhardt's Fokker, so swiftly had I volplaned down. I cut off my engine to lessen the roar of my approach, although I knew the fog would so deaden the sound that my location would be difficult to determine, even to persons directly under me.

I had every muscle alert, I can promise you, as I leaned over and tried to focus on some object through the eddying streaks of white under me. It is, I said to myself, quite the choicest attempt at a landing I have ever tried. But what else can I do? I must risk it.

If the fog were lifting, I would have space enough perhaps to catch a glimpse of the lay of the land, and then, switching on my motor, might climb back up to guide Reinhardt as well as I could to his best available landing-place. I could snatch only the hastiest glance, under any circumstances. I doubted whether Reinhardt could succeed in pulling his crippled machine out of a downward spiral into an upward, climbing position, or whether it would be wise to attempt it.

As nearly as I could judge, I had kept vertically under the

a

Blinded, stunned, and suffocating, I snatched desperately at the clasp of my safety belt, and even as I did so I was conscious of a ridiculous desire to laugh at my disaster.

I had landed in a body of water, somewhere in France, at a speed of approximately one hundred miles an hour!

How deep, how far to shore, in what direction to swim, whether I was hurt, and whether I could disentangle myself from the wreck of my beloved Nieuport, were some of the thoughts that flashed across my brain as I held my breath under water and felt about for the top plane.

But there was no top plane there. It had been torn off by the unyielding current, and had undoubtedly considerably checked my terrific impact with the water. In two strokes I was at the surface. Lying on my back, I took off my leather coat, my goggles, and gloves. Across the surface of the lake and under the lifting fog I could see green banks of grass some two hundred feet distant. I'll swear I never saw a more pleasing landscape in my life!

I did not even abandon my long coat and glasses, as I had intended, but I swam along with one hand and pulled them after me until my feet touched ground, and then I waded ashore. Reaching the top of the bank, I found the outside world again shut out by the fog. It was drearily hanging some four or five feet above the water and slowly lifting. Not a tree, building, nor object of any character was visible.

Still too dazed to use my wits, I sat down on the grass and began slowly to remove my puttees and my clothing. As I emptied the water from my boots, I noticed that the grass where I was sitting was newly cut and was as trim and well cared for as on a city lawn.

I was stupidly speculating on this extraordinary circumstance when I suddenly heard a peculiar whirring sound from above. Puzzled, I cocked an ear upwards.

Reinhardt and his Fokker! I had forgotten him entirely. Simultaneously with the Fokker's sickening crash upon the water I leaped headlong in. After a dozen strokes beyond my depth I paused and called to Reinhardt anxiously. Silence! The waves were circling towards me from the spot where his airplane had disappeared. "Bunny!" I called. "Bunny, old boy! Answer me!" Still no reply. I estimated the position of the center of the circle and pawed forward, hand over hand, urging every pound of energy into my stroke.

of

Swimming on my side, I struck blindly into a floating piece of wreckage. Examining it briefly, I saw that it was the top plane of the Fokker with one spar attached. The grim black cross the enemy's Air Service glared back into my eyes as I pushed the obstruction away. Here was my prize that I had coveted several hours ago. Several hours! It was less than ten minutes since I had shot him down!

Well, this is war! A casual bullet might have set me on a still different course. What does it matter? I'm a bit bewil dered certainly, but I must go through with it. What am I doing out here in the water, anyway? Why am I exerting all my strength so? My brain is whirling round and round.

A white object emerges slowly from the surface of the lake off to my right. It is the tail of an airplane. The engine is heavier, of course, and holds the front end down. Naturally the tail will bob up. Somewhere down along that up-pointing tail with a distorted rudder, something is fastened in a pilot's seat under the water. I don't recall what it is, but I must get it. In a second or two I have my arms around the cursed thing.

I fill my tired lungs with air and grope hand under hand down the distended buoyant tail. I notice the hateful Maltese cross outline painted on the tail as I pass it. Its very fright fulness startles my numb consciousness into activity again. I must get something out of its clutches before it gets me that something will be very precious to me. It is held in by a strap around its middle.

-and

Here it is! I grope around the strap until I find the fastening. One hand frees it, while the other engages itself under the

young

66

66

"The question is, Bunny, are you my prisoner, or am I yours? Where the devil are we, anyway?" I inquired, as we stood on the grass wringing out our clothes.

"You can investigate me, Arnold. Suppose we toss for it," replied Reinhardt, swatting me joyfully on the bare back with his wet sock. "I propose that we intrench here in the middle of the lake until something turns up to identify itself. I have no particular desire to step out of this fog into one of your New Zealanders' abri.”

"No more do I care to bump into your Crown Prince," I retorted. "But have you really no idea where we are? Don't you know which side of the blooming trenches we are on?"

"Not I, old timber-top," Reinhardt replied, putting a broken airplane spar on the fire we had lighted as though he hadn't another care in the world. "I've seen this lake a hundred times, and so have you, but which lake it is out of the dozen about here is past me. When the fog lifts, the guns will pick up, and then perhaps we can tell."

"When the fog lifts, then perhaps they can tell us, too," I retorted. "That's a clever little idea of yours, Bunny. One of us is in for it as soon as this fog lifts.”

We both burst out laughing at the absurdity of our situation. Here we were, two enemies, standing stark naked over the puny little fire that we had lighted after some difficulty with my tinder-light, drying our clothing and wondering whose camp we were in. Our wrecked airplanes lay buried side by side in the same watery grave.

Reinhardt extended his waterproof cigarette-case and offered me a cigarette. I took one, and, examining the label, found it a celebrated Turkish product. We lighted up from a blazing piece of airplane spruce, and sat down with our toes to the fire.

Captured by the great American ace! What are you-going to do with me, Lieutenant Adair? What's this I hear about your torturing prisoners for information? Or is it only the British who do that?"

"Bunny, don't be a bally ass! Who ever made you believe

such rot?"

"It isn't rot, Arnold, and you know it," returned my friend, quickly. "We have absolutely indisputable proof of the most villainous atrocities your soldiers are practicing on German prisoners. That is the only reason we permit reprisals."

I gazed at him in stupefaction. "You really believe that?" I groaned.

"Oh, come, Arnold. You needn't put on with me. I'm not

charging you with anything. Except, I must admit, I blame you for taking sides with England against us. You are the most gullible nation on the face of the earth you Americans. You are rich and strong and far removed from the war. England couldn't force you to come in, as she has forced all the lesser nations. So she planned the most stupendous propaganda to hoodwink you, and she succeeded."

"Reinhardt," I said, "I don't blame you for having your own point of view, but I dislike to argue this thing with youit will only make us both angry. I joined the French Air Service within a month after Germany marched upon Paris. So you cannot blame England with hoodwinking me.'

"Well, why did you do it?"

"Because I knew German soldiers marched into French territory. But look here, Bunny. Here we stand half naked arguing about this damned war when we haven't seen each other in five years. For God's sake, let's drop it, now and forever. To think of our meeting here like this! Twice, God forgive me, I've shot at you, trying to kill you. You, Bunny!" Reinhardt grinned broadly.

"And once, Chingachgook, you tried to make me believe your gun was jammed. Oh, you poor Indian!"

"Don't go to sleep like that again in the air," I rejoined, somewhat nettled. "But isn't this an extraordinary mess? Tell me about yourself. When did you get into the war?"

Reinhardt related the circumstances of his early flying-school training. Ever since the Battle of the Marne he had been constantly flying along the western front. How many times had we unconsciously shot deadly bullets into each other's machines between Verdun and the North Sea?

I, in turn, recounted my experiences since we had last met at Eckstein. My trip to Europe with my family during the summer of 1914, and our intention of motoring to Eckstein to see him, when the war suddenly broke upon us. My subsequent enlistment in the French Air Service, and the different sectors of the front I had seen.

We spent upwards of an hour around our fire in the small hollow beside the lake. Suddenly Bunny jumped to his feet and pointed to the lifting fog.

66

We must get out of here, Chingachgook. In a few minutes we will be displayed to some vulgar eye. Where shall we go?" Together we walked up the bank and looked over our surroundings. The fog still obscured the landscape beyond a few hundred feet.

"You take the left, and I'll take this side, Bunny," said I, "and we'll walk around the lake until we meet. Perhaps we can learn something about our location."

"Farewell, my faithful swan," quoted Bunny, waving an adieu to his mangled airplane in the middle of the lake. "Somebody's going to find those remaths very soon, and then they'll drag the pond for poor Bunny's remains. Well, here's luck to them!" Extinguishing the fire in the hollow, we shook hands in silence and separated.

Leaving our leather coats on the grass, we set off in opposite directions around the bend of the lake. Guns aplenty were sounding all around us, but a foggy atmosphere is a rotten conductor of sounds, and nothing distinguishable could be made of their whereabouts or character.

I had not walked two hundred yards when I heard our old school whistle. I stopped and whistled back, and, after listening in silence a moment, retraced my steps to meet my old chum.

Picking up our traps, we left the lake and climbed the hill, keeping close up outside the hedge for protection. Before many minutes we climbed up out of the mist and stood gazing there lost in wonder and speculation. Before us lay a magnificent estate. Fruit trees and a neat low-running vineyard covered the foreground. In the rear, vine-covered, stone-walled buildings were almost hidden by a stately park of trees. Not a soul was in sight. "It's well screened from airplane observation," remarked Bunny.