It wasn't them at all. It, was Squadron No. 311, who are just out from England, going off on escort duty to meet some "Fours" that had gone over on a bombing raid. They didn't know anything about me, of course, but when they got back they sent word to Wing Headquarters that they saw a Hun flying a Camel.

'They were sure it must have been a Hun, because they saw it fly straight up to the Boche formation. I was the poor b.o.o.b they saw, and if that's their idea of joining a formation, I hope they never join one of ours: 'But what did Wilks say about it?'

'He laughed - they all did - and said he was sorry. Then he had the nerve to suggest that I stayed to lunch. I told him that I hoped his lunch would give him corns on the gizzard, and then I pushed off back here'

'What are you going to do about it?' asked Algy.

'I don't know yet: replied Biggles slowly. 'But it'll be something, you can bet your life on that!'

For the next hour Biggles sat on the veranda, contemplating the distant horizon, and then a slow smile spread over his face. He rose to his feet and sought Algy, whom he found at the sheds, making some minor adjustments to his guns.

Algy!' he called. 'Come here! I want you. I've got it.'

'Got what?'

'The answer. I'm going to pull old Wilks' leg so hard that he will never get it back into its socket, and I want your help: Tine! Go ahead! What do I do?'

'First of all, I've got to get Wilks out of the way this afternoon for as long as possible; that is, I want to get him off the aerodrome. You know Wilks has a secret pa.s.sion for those big lumps of toffee with stripes on'

'Stripes on?'

'Yes, you know the things I mean - you get 'em at fairs and places?

'You mean humbugs?'

'That's it - humbugs. Wilks has eaten every humbug for miles. What I want you to do is to ring up Wilks and tell him that you've discovered a new shop in Amiens where they have some beauties -enormous ones, pink, with purple stripes.

'Lay it on thick. Make his mouth water so much that he s...o...b..rs into the telephone. Tell him you've got a tender going to Amiens this very afternoon, and would he like to come?

If he says yes, as I expect he will, tell him to fly over here right away, but he'd better not tell anyone where he is going, as you're not supposed to have the tender. I'll fix up the transport question with Tyler. You take Wilks to Amiens.

If you can find a shop where they sell humbugs, well and good. If you can't you'll have to make some excuse - say you've forgotten the shop.

'Keep him out of the way as long as you can, and then bring him back here. He'll have to come back, anyway, to collect his machine.'

And what are you goingto do?'

'Never you mind; replied Biggles. 'But, tell me, has Squadron No. 91 still got that Pfalz Scout* on their aerodrome - the one they forced to land the other day?'

I think so; I saw it standing on the tarmac there a couple of days ago as I flew over.'

'Fine! That's all I want to know You go and ring * Very successful German single-seater biplane fighter, fitted with two or three machine guns synchronized to fire through the propeller.

up Wilks and get him down to Amiens. Don't say anything about me. If he wants to know where I am, you can say I am in the air, which will be true.'

'Good enough, laddie!' said Algy. 'I'd like to know what the d.i.c.kens you're going to get up to, but if you won't tell me, you won't. And that's that. See you later.'

21.

RETURNED UNKNOWN.

It was well on in the afternoon when a mechanic, who was s.n.a.t.c.hing forty stolen winks on the shady side of the hangars on the aerodrome of Squadron No. 287, happened to open his eyes and look upwards. He started violently and looked again, and was instantly galvanized into life.

He sprang to his feet and sprinted like a professional runner towards a dugout by the gunpits, yelling shrilly as he went. His voice awoke the dozing aerodrome, and figures emerged from unexpected places.

Several officers appeared at the door of the mess, and after a quick glance upwards joined in the general rush, some making for the dugout and others for the revolving Lewis gun* that was mounted on an ancient cartwheel near the squadron office.

A medley of voices broke out, but above them a more urgent sound could be heard, the deep-throated song of a fast-moving aeroplane.

* Gun mounted on a scarf ring which completely encircled the gunner's c.o.c.kpit allowing it to point in any direction. Also used on the ground, as here.

The cause of the upheaval was not hard to discover. From out of a high thin layer of cloud had appeared an aeroplane of unmistakable German design; it was a Pfalz Scout.

And it was soon apparent that its objective was Squadron No. 287's aerodrome.

Like a falling rocket the machine screamed earthwards. It flattened out some distance to the east of the aerodrome, tore across the sheds at terrific speed, and then zoomed heavenward again, the pilot twisting his machine from side to side to avoid the bullets that he knew would follow him.

But his speed had been his salvation, for he was out of range before the gunners could bring their sights to bear.

As the machine disappeared once more into the cloud whence it had so unexpectedly appeared, two or three officers began running towards their machines. But, realizing that pursuit was useless, they hurried towards the spot where a little crowd had collected.

'What is it?' cried one of them.

'Message,' was the laconic reply. I saw him drop it!

The speaker tore the envelope from the streamer to which it was attached and ripped it open impatiently. His face paled as he read the note.

It's Wilks,' he said in a low voice. 'He's down -over the other side!

'The Huns got him over Bettonau, half an hour ago - got his engine. By the courtesy of the C.O. of the Hun squadron where they have taken him, he has sent this message to say that he is unhurt, and would like someone to bring him over a change of clothes.

'He says he can have his shirts and pyjamas and pants - anything that we think might be useful. If someone will drop them on the Boche aerodrome at Douai, they will be handed to him before he is sent to the prison camp tonight!

I'll go!' cried several voices simultaneously. Parker, a pilot of Wilks' flight, claimed the honour.

'Wilks was my pal: he insisted, 'and this is the least I can do for him. I'll make a parcel of his small kit and all his shirts and things and drop them on the Hun aerodrome right away. Poor old Wilks!'

Sadly the speaker departed in the direction of Wilkinson's quarters, and half an hour later, watched by the sorrowful members of the squadron, the S.E. departed on its fateful journey.

Meantime, the pilot of the Pfalz Scout was not having a happy time. Twice he was sighted and pursued by British scouts, and although he managed to give them the slip, he was pestered continually by anti-aircraft gunfire, for his course lay, not over the German Lines, as one might have supposed, but behind the British Lines.

Finally, the black-crossed machine reached its objective, and started a long spin earthward, from which it did not emerge until it was very close to the ground in the immediate vicinity of Mont St. Eloi, the station of Naval Squadron No. 91.

The Pfalz made a couple of quick turns and then glided between the sheds of the aerodrome, afterwards taxi-ing quickly towards a little group of spectators.

The pilot- Biggles - switched off and climbed out of his c.o.c.kpit, removing his cap and goggles as he did so. Lee, a junior officer in the Royal Naval Air Service uniform, broke from the group and hurried to meet him.

'What's the game, Bigglesworth?' he said shortly. 'You told me you only wanted to have a quick flip round the aerodrome. You've been gone more than half an hour.'

'Have I? Have I been away as long as that?' replied Biggles in well-simulated surprise. '

Sorry, old man, but I found the machine so nice to fly that I found it hard to tear myself out of the sky: 'There'll be a row, you know, if it gets known that you've been flying about over this side of the Line in a Hun machine. Besides, you must be off your rocker. I wonder our people didn't knock the stuffing out of you!'

'They did try,' admitted Biggles, 'but, really, I was most anxious to know just what a Pfalz could do. All our fellows ought to fly a Hun machine occasionally. It would help them to know how to attack it'

'Perhaps you're right - but it would be thundering risky!'

'Yes, I suppose it would be,' admitted Biggles. 'But look here - in case there is a row, or if anyone starts asking questions about your Pfalz, I should be very much obliged if you'd forget that anyone has borrowed it. In any case, don't, for goodness' sake, mention my name in connection with it!'

'Right you are!' grinned Lee. 'Where are you off to now? Aren't you going to stay to tea?'

'No, thanks - I must get back. I've got one or two urgent things to attend to. Cheerio, laddie, and many thanks for the loan of your kite!'

With a parting wave, Biggles walked across to his Camel, took off, and set his nose in the direction of Maranique.

Biggles was comfortably seated in the ante-room, when, an hour later, a tender pulled up in front of the mess. Algy and Wilkinson, both apparently in high spirits, got out.

Glancing in through the window, they saw Biggles inside, and entered noisily.

'What do you think about this poor b.o.o.b?' began Wilks good-humouredly. 'He rang me up this afternoon to say that he was going to Amiens, and asked if I would like to come.

He told me he knew of a shop where they sold the biggest humbugs in France, and then when we got to Amiens he couldn't remember where it was!'

'Yes, wasn't it funny?' agreed Algy. 'My memory is all going to blazes lately!'

'Yes, it's caused by castor oil soaking through the scalp into the brain!' declared Biggles.

I've been like that myself. The best thing is to take a pint of petrol night and morning every day for a week, and then apply a lighted match to the tonsils?

'Oh, shut up! Don't be a fool!' laughed Wilks. 'What about coming over to our place for dinner?

We've got a bit of a show on tonight. We should have some fun.'

'That's O.K. by me!' declared Biggles.

And me,' agreed Algy. 'What shall we do - go over by tender? We shan't be able to fly back, anyway; it'll be dark!

'But I've got my kite here!

'Never mind; leave it here until the morning - it'll take no harm!

'Fine! Come on, then; let's go while the tender is still here!

The S.E. pilots of Squadron No. 187 were at tea when, shortly afterwards, Biggles, Wilks and Algy entered the mess arm-in-arm. There was a sudden hush as they walked into the room. All eyes were fixed on Wilkinson.

'Hallo, chaps!' he called gaily. And then, observing the curious stares, he stopped dead and looked around him. 'What's wrong with you blighters?' he said. 'Have you all been struck with lockjaw?'

Parker, deadly white, crossed the room slowly and touched him gently on the chin with his finger.

'What's the idea?' Wilts said, in amazement. 'Think you're playing tag?' He turned to Biggles. 'Looks like we've come to a madhouse: he observed.

'Is it you?' said Parker, in an awed whisper.

Wilks scratched his chin reflectively 'I thought it was,' he said. 'It is me, Biggles, isn't it?'

Absolutely you and n.o.body else; declared Biggles.

'Come on, then, let's go through to my room and have a wash and brush up.'

Wilks led the way along the corridor and pushed open the door of his room, then staggered back with an exclamation of alarm.

'My hat!' he shouted. 'We've had burglars! Some skunk's pinched my kit!'

Biggles and Algy looked over his shoulder. The room was in terrific disorder. Drawers had been pulled out and their contents scattered over the floor. The lid of a uniform-case stood open, exposing an empty interior.

The room looked like the bedroom of an hotel that had been hurriedly evacuated. Wilks continued to stare at it incredulously.

'No,' said a small nervous voice behind them, 'it wasn't burglars - it was me'

'You!' gasped Wilks. 'What do you mean by throwing my things all over the floor, you pie-faced rabbit? What have you done with my pyjamas, anyway? And where are my shirts, and -'

'I'm afraid your things are at Douai!'

'Douai!' Wilks staggered and sat down limply on the bed. 'Douai?' he repeated foolishly. '

What in the name of sweet glory would my clothes be doing at Douai? You're crazy!'

'I took them: Wilks swayed and his eyes opened wide.

'Do I understand you to say you've taken my clothes to Douai? Why Douai? Couldn't you think of anywhere else? I mean, if you wanted a joke you could have thrown them about the mess, or even out on the aerodrome! But Douai - I suppose you really mean Douai?'

'That's right?

Wilks looked from Biggles to Algy and back again at Biggles.

'Can you hear what he says?' he choked. 'Did you hear him say that he'd taken my kit to - Douai?'

'When you were a prisoner,' explained Parker.

Wilks closed his eyes and shook his head savagely 'I'm dreaming!' he muttered. 'You didn't by any chance see anybody dope that lemonade that I had in Amiens this afternoon, did you, Algy?'

'No,' replied Algy. I didn't, but I don't trust -'