think of Arctic explorers,” declared Don, with a delighted little laugh.

Don was experiencing a pleasurable sensation, not unmixed with a certain sense of awe. Here, right before him, were actually some of the men who but a short time before had been piloting their machines at dizzy heights in the sky. The fascination of it all seemed to grip him strangely—to make him impatient and anxious to begin his initiation into the art of flying.

“Another little eaglet, sir, ready to carry terror into the heart of the Kaiser.”

In these words Tom Dorsey was introducing him to one of the “real birds.”

The aviator was only a young chap, not many years older than Don, but, like many of the Americans and Frenchmen present, he had allowed his face to remain unshaven, and the resulting growth of beard gave him quite an appearance of maturity.

“There’s a big lot of difference between the way flying schools are conducted over here and in America and Canada,” volunteered the aviator, whose name, Don learned, was Hampton Coles. “On our side of the big pool discipline is probably as strict as in any other branch of the army. We go in for drills and all that sort of thing, while in France, at least at present, the schools are only semi-military in character. The object is to turn out flyers as quickly as possible, which means casting a whole lot of theories, red tape and non-essentials into the junk heap. Flyers are needed—badly needed. The ‘eyes of the army,’ they call them.”

“At what time does work begin?” asked Don.

“We’re in our planes shortly after dawn. At nine o’clock the first session is over; then it’s back to the barracks. Dinner is served at one o’clock, and after that the boys are free to do what they please until five. On our return to the piste, or flying field, we usually keep steadily at it until nearly dark.”

“How does it happen that so many are here at this hour?”

“Oh, this crowd only represents a small portion of the students who, for one reason or another, stopped work a bit early,” replied Hampton. “In all, we have about one hundred and twenty-five men, and among them are several Russians—daring chaps they are, too, but rather poor flyers.”

“But the Americans seem pretty good at it, eh?”

Hampton Coles laughed.

“The moniteurs are always bawling out some of the best élèves for doing unnecessary and risky stunts,” he declared. “I imagine they think we’re a reckless, hair-brained lot. However”—his tone suddenly sobered; his eyes were turned thoughtfully off into the distance—“it doesn’t do to take many chances in the air. It’s mighty tricky; and so are the machines. Some of our boys have already paid the penalty. Yes, it’s a dangerous game, son.”

“Which only makes it a lot more interesting,” put in Drugstore, quietly.

“To be sure!” laughed Coles. “But, as this rig o’ mine is getting to feel prominent, I’ll skip.”

Jack Norworth presently sauntered over to tell Don that in order to get a bed he would have to go to the commissary depot, about a half mile distant.

“I’ll hoof it with you,” he volunteered.

“Good!” said Don.

George and Drugstore elected to accompany them; so the four immediately left the Hotel d’Amerique, and, through the slowly-gathering shades of night, started off.

“By the way, where are you staying?” asked Jack, turning to George Glenn.

“At a hotel in the little village of Étainville,” replied the young member of the Lafayette Squadron.

“Why, it’s at Étainville that we have our club!” cried Jack.

“A club?” queried Don, interestedly.

“Sure thing!”

“I don’t like clubs,” commented Drugstore.

“Why not?” demanded Jack.

“Oh, the fellows are always calling upon a chap to tell a story, make a speech or do something else to amuse ’em,”