McGee, on the contrary, went as wild as a berserker the moment he laid eyes on a plane bearing the black cross. Orders were forgotten and he dived, throttle wide open, stick far forward, every thought gone from his mind but the one compelling urge to get that other plane on the inside of his ring sight. McGee had his personal faults, but he was a faultless flyer. The same may be said of Larkin, for men in aerial combat never make but one vital mistake. Those who become aces have no great faults; those with great faults become mere tallies for the aces.

Now and then, of course, the grim scorer nods during the game and a fault goes unpenalized, but as a rule it can be said that a man who can become an ace may well be called a faultless flyer, for an ace is one who has rolled up a score of five victories against those whose skill was less than his own. Of course, there is the element of luck to be considered, for luck and skill must go hand in hand when youths go jousting in the clouds. But luck can only attend the skillful. With skill wanting, luck soon deserts.

Beyond doubt both McGee and Larkin had enjoyed a full measure of luck, and were still enjoying it. For example, wasn't it luck that had sent them both down here on the French front to act as instructors to newly arriving American squadrons? Wasn't it luck that they were still billeted together in the lovely old chateau at the edge of town, and could look forward to many, many more days together?

These latter thoughts were running through McGee's mind as his car swung under the trees lining the drive that led up to the chateau. Why, but for luck both of them might now be pushing up the daisies instead of being happily, and comparatively safely ensconced in such comfortable quarters. No more dawn patrols--for a while at least; no more soggy breakfasts--with comrades missing who banteringly breakfasted with you twenty-four short hours ago.

McGee's thoughts took unconscious vocal form as he stepped from the car.

"Lucky? I'll say we are!"

"What did you say, sir?" asked the driver.

The question snapped McGee back to earth.

"I was complimenting myself upon some very narrow escapes, Martins, but I'll repeat--for your benefit. You are a very lucky boy."

Martins blinked. He held opposite views. "You think so, sir? I've gotta different idea. I wanted to be a pilot, like you, sir, and here I am toolin' this old bus around France with never a chance to get off the ground unless I run off an embankment. And this old wreck is no bird."

"So you really wanted to be a pilot, Martins?"

"I sure did, sir."

"Um-m. That's why I said you were a very lucky young man. I know the names of a lot of young fellows who wanted to become pilots--and did.

But they've gone West now and their names are on wooden crosses. Hoe your own row, Martins, and thank the Lord for small favors."

"Yes, sir," aloud, and under his breath, "It's easy enough for them that has wings."

"How's that, Martins?" McGee asked, rather enjoying himself.

Martins fidgeted with the gear shift. "I said I had always wanted a pair of wings, sir."

"Well, be a good boy and maybe you'll get them--in the next world. Good night, Martins."

"'Night--sir." Gurrr! went the clashing gears as the car got under way with a lurch that spoke volumes for the driver. It was tough to be held to the ground by a wingless motor.

McGee caught a gleam of light through the shutters of the upstairs windows. So Larkin was back already? He took the front steps in a jump and raced up the stairs in a manner most unbecoming to a First Lieutenant with a score of victories to his credit.

"What kind of an outfit did you draw, Buzz?" he demanded as he burst into the room.

Larkin was buried behind a Paris edition of the _Tribune_, his legs sprawled out into the middle of the floor where the heel of one boot balanced precariously on the toe of the other.

"Oh, so-so," never bothering to look from behind his paper. Phlegmatic old Buzz, McGee thought, what was the use of getting excited over an instructor's job?

"Are they good?" McGee asked.

"Um. Dunno." Still reading.

"Mine are great!" McGee enthused. "Stiff, crusty young C.O., who needs a couple of crashes--one fatal, maybe--but the rest of them are fine.

Great bunch of pilots."

"Yeah?" Still reading, but doubtful. "See any of 'em fly?"

"No-o," slowly, "of course not."

"Um-m. Well, wait until they begin sticking the noses of those new Spads in the ground, and then tell me about 'em. They've been trained on settin' hens. Wait until they mount a hawk."

McGee jerked a pillow from the bed and sent it crashing through the concealing paper. "Old killjoy! If a man gave you a diamond you'd try it on gla.s.s to see if it was real."

Larkin began rearranging his crumpled paper. "Well, why not? If it wasn't real I wouldn't want it. And I wish you'd keep your pillows out of my theatrical news. I was just reading about a play at the _Folies Bergeres_, called 'Zig Zag'. They say it's a scream. By the way, Shrimp, how'd you like to fly to Paris to-morrow morning and give it the once over?"

"Fine, but--"

"But nothing! We can see it to-morrow night and be back the next day.

That fine bunch of pilots of yours can't get off the ground until the Spads get here--and maybe not then."

"See here!" McGee challenged stoutly. "I'll bet you anything you like that those boys--"

"Will all be aces in a month," Larkin completed, knowing the extent and warmth of McGee's habitual enthusiasm. "All right, Shrimp, so be it. But what has that to do with the show? Want to go?"

"Sure. But what about pa.s.ses? I don't know just who we are answerable to down here, in the matter of privileges and so forth. I've been sort of lost for the last few days."

Larkin shoved his hand into his inside blouse pocket and brought forth two folded papers which he displayed proudly.

"Here are the pa.s.ses--all jake! Marked official business and authorizing fuel and supplies, if needed. I'm a great little fixer. And about that question of not knowing who you are answerable to, don't forget that it's little Johnny Bull--capital J and B. You're liable to get jerked off this detail so quick you'll leave toothbrush and pajamas behind.

Every morning now when I wake up and remember that I don't have to go out on dawn patrol I start pinching myself to see if I'm awake. Boy, in this game it's here to-day and gone to-morrow. Wasn't it old Omar who handed out that gag, 'Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, before we too into the dust descend'?... Yeah? Well, he must have written that for war pilots. The minute J.B. finds out how comfortable we are down here we'll be recalled and sent to chasing Huns back across the line. In fact, I think we're both asleep and having nice dreams."

"That reminds me," McGee said, drawing up a chair and sitting gingerly on the edge after the manner of one about to indulge in confidential disclosures. "Have you heard anything of this repatriation business?"

"Sure. Haven't you?"

"Not a word."

"Where have you been? It came down in a G.O."

McGee scratched his head. "So I've just learned, but it's the first I've heard of it. Funny you didn't mention it to me."

Larkin eyed him curiously. "Well," slowly, "I knew you were English and--"

"But I'm not, and you know it!" McGee flared.

"Calm, brother, calm! I mean, I knew your father and mother were English, and so was your brother."

"But I was born in America. I'm just as much of an American as you are!"

"Calm, brother, calm! No one says you are not. But because of your family nationality, I supposed you would want to finish out the string with the R.F.C. and," he reached over and tousled McGee's mop of flaming red hair, "I'm just fool enough to want to stick around where you are--you little shrimp! So I thought I wouldn't bring up the subject."

McGee gave him a look of deep understanding and appreciation.

"Fact is," Larkin went on, "I just got a letter from Dad the other day and he seems to be pretty hot under the collar because I haven't made any move to get repatriated."