passengers and much luggage, and driven by a gray-haired cocher, drew slowly up to a high iron gate and came to a halt. And the wheels had scarcely stopped before two young chaps, with exclamations of deep satisfaction and relief, literally tumbled out of the ancient vehicle and stared about them.

“Well, Don, here we are at last!” cried the elder.

“Yes, George. And this is certainly one of the greatest moments of my life. Tomorrow I start my training to become a pilot,” exclaimed the other, such a degree of enthusiasm expressed in his tone as to make the wrinkled cab driver turn, survey him with a curious grin, and comment in the French tongue:

“I guess that’s the way most of them act until something happens.”

But the boys scarcely heard him.

Surmounting the iron gate, inside of which an armed sentry was slowly pacing, this inscription in large, bold letters, stood out against the sky:

“École d’Aviation Militaire de Beaumont.”

“I certainly hope the Boches won’t get you, young monsieur,” continued the driver. “But, if you don’t mind, I’d be glad if you’d will your life insurance to me.”

“I’ll think about it,” laughed the boy. He deposited several pieces of silver in the palm of the hand held toward him, then began the task of getting his luggage off the vehicle. By the time this was done the sentry had opened the great iron gate.

With a hasty good-bye, the boys turned toward the soldier and producing several important-looking papers handed them to him.

And while the proceeding was underway this series of comments passed between five young men, attired in the horizon blue uniform of the French poilu, who were strolling inside the great enclosure not far away:

“Well, well! What have we here?”

“No doubt a couple more pilots.”

“But, if I’m not mistaken, one of them is actually wearing the stars and wings insignia of the air service on his uniform. He’s a corporal.”

“So he is! Such a young chap, too!—looks, for all the world, like a high-school boy on his way home from the place of demerit marks and ciphers.”

“Let’s give ’em the grand quiz.”

It took the sentry only an instant to scan the papers and nod his head in approval, and another instant for the newcomers to gather up their possessions and head for the group of five.

“Step up and give your names, boys.” The speaker was a tall, angular youth with bushy red hair and twinkling blue eyes.

“Don Hale,” answered one of the newcomers.

“George Glenn,” replied the other.

“Of the Lafayette Squadron?”

“Exactly! And on a couple of days’ furlough.”

And one of the natural but not very agreeable ways of the world was exemplified then and there; for Don Hale, the prospective student of the great military flying school, immediately found his presence totally ignored, while his companion, member of the most famous escadrille of the aviation service, began to receive the homage and admiration due to one who had attained such an exalted position in life. To be a member of the Lafayette Flying Corps was indeed a signal honor—an honor coveted above all things by the majority of the American aviation students.

Don Hale, smiling a little to himself, thereupon seized the opportunity to examine the view outspread before him.

And what the boy saw made him draw a deep, long breath, like one who has just experienced a feeling of vast satisfaction and pleasure. It was an immense level field, or rather a series of fields. Far in the distance long rows of low canvas hangars and tents stood out in faint gray tones against the background of earth and sky. Nearer at hand were lines of rather dingy-looking wooden structures—the barracks—and isolated buildings used for various purposes, while dominating all rose a tall and graceful wireless mast.

Far more interesting to the American lad,