comradeship perhaps impossible under other circumstances. There was, for instance, Dave Cornwell, of New York, of the beau monde of Fifth Avenue, with aristocracy imprinted unmistakably on his clean-cut features. And in striking contrast to him was Sid Marlow, cowpuncher of Montana, deck hand on a Mississippi steamboat, longshoreman, and, lastly, fighter in the Foreign Legion. In fact, the majority of the American élèves had seen service in that famous branch of the French army, which had recruited its members from all parts of the world. No embarrassing questions were asked; an applicant’s antecedents mattered little; he was given a chance to retrieve whatever mistakes he may have made, and, perhaps, through the fiery ordeal of battle, come out a vastly superior man.

Several of the students particularly attracted Don Hale’s attention, one of them being T. Singleton Albert, referred to by his companions as “Drugstore”; for he had at one time been a drugstore clerk and soda-water dispenser in Syracuse. Albert was a rather effeminate looking little chap, who seemed wholly out of place in an aviation school. He appeared diffident to the point of shyness, and his voice, delicate and refined, was seldom heard. Don Hale wondered if he would ever make a flyer, a profession in which courage and daring are such prime requisites.

Another boy who interested the new student greatly was Bobby Dunlap, who had had the singular cognomen of “Peur Jamais” thrust upon him. Tom Dorsey airily explained that on one occasion a student had demanded in French of Bobby if he experienced fear during a certain offensive in which the Foreign Legion took part, whereupon Bobby had blurted out the words “Peur?—Jamais!—Fear?—Never!” in such a strenuous and convincing tone as to create a big laugh—also a new title for himself, and one that persistently stuck.

There was a certain reserve and hauteur in the manner of a third young chap named Victor Gilbert which somehow appealed to Don Hale, suggesting to his imaginative mind that Gilbert’s sphere in life was, or rather had been, a little different from that of most of his fellow students.

Conversation was going on briskly when a rumble of wheels outside made Don hurry to the window.

“It’s the camion bringing in some of the real birds from the grande piste, or principal flying field, which is a good long way from here,” volunteered Peur Jarnais. “Those chaps are the stuff—yes, sir. By Jove, they’d make an eagle jealous! Eagles can’t fly upside down, can they? Of course not; but some of our boys can.”

“It’s a great life if you don’t weaken,” put in Tom Dorsey.

“Ever feel any symptoms of it?” asked Don, smilingly.

“Sure!—a hundred times.”

“I never did,” put in Drugstore, in his mild, weak voice. “To-morrow,” he cleared his throat and paused impressively, his manner indicating that some information of vast importance was about to be communicated—“to-morrow ”—another instant of hesitation, and he began again—“to-morrow I’m going to make my first flight in the air.”

“That means flying at an altitude of twenty-five feet at most,” giggled Mittengale.

“I reckon it also means a machine smashed to bits in landing,” chirped Peur Jamais. “They say it costs the French government an average of five thousand dollars to train its aviators. I’ll bet in your case, Drugstore, they’ll get off cheap at ten thousand.”

Don Hale, his head thrust out of the window, now saw the returning aviators tumbling off the big camion which had halted before the door.

In another moment they bustled into the barracks, and the yellowish rays of the oil lamps fell with strange and picturesque effect across their forms. Each was encased in a great leather coat and trousers and wore a helmet made from the same heavy material. Several, too, still had on their grotesque-looking goggles.

“They make me