Don Hale was certainly given a tremendous reception; and a short time
later, while comfortably seated in a chair at the villa recounting his
memorable adventures, was highly gratified to hear T. Singleton Albert
verify his statement concerning the destruction of the observation
balloon.
“This is the way it came about,” explained Drugstore: “During that
scrimmage with the Boches I happened to see Don’s machine, hotly
pursued, enter the clouds. And Don being rather new at the game, I
thought I’d try to hang around a bit, so as to keep an eye on him if I
could.”
“Bully for you!” cried Don. “Albert, you’re a brick!”
“I had a pretty fierce time of it, too, with tracer bullets cutting
holes through the air all about me, but, after a while, I managed to
slip away from the attacking planes. By that time the scrap was over and
the photographic machine and its escort were on their way home.
“Somehow or other, I don’t know why, I had a pretty strong suspicion,
Don, that your Nieuport wasn’t among them. So, instead of making for the
airdrome, I flew back over the lines, incidentally saying
‘how-do-you-do’ to a number of ‘Archies’ and a bushel or two of
‘onions.’ I shot up pretty high to avoid being shot up myself, and after
traveling quite a considerable distance began cutting big spirals in the
air. The clouds were looking mighty ominous and threatening, and several
times yours truly was tempted to beat it, but, fortunately, something
restrained me.
“My Nieuport was away up near the ceiling when, on looking down, I
suddenly discovered a plane which appeared exactly as though it was
crawling along the ground. Through a pair of binoculars I could see the
circles of red, white and blue on the wing tips. Then I volplaned a bit,
hoping to make out whether it was your machine or not.” Albert began to
laugh. “Yes, I saw the whole shooting match, Don; and the way that big
sausage began to blaze after your little interview certainly tickled my
fancy.”
“Oh, boy, but wouldn’t I have enjoyed the sight!” giggled Bobby Dunlap.
“Of course it wasn’t possible for me to tell whether it was your plane
or not, Don, but after seeing the Nieuport begin to climb to a higher
altitude I concluded to say good-bye to ‘Germany’ and streak for the
home plate.
“Very soon it began to rain—rain like the dickens, too, and before I
got within miles of the airdrome my bus was doing everything but turning
somersaults. Anyway, Don, you’ve got a witness to prove that you turned
the trick.”
“That’s simply great!” chuckled Don. “Some afternoon, eh?”
“You bet!” agreed Drugstore. “But it certainly was a jolly rude jolt to
me when I got back and found that after all you had not returned.”
“Anyway, he’ll have something to talk about for the rest of his life,”
said George Glenn.
“There’s no doubt about that,” laughed Don.
The young pilot had by no means recovered from the effects of his
turbulent experiences. Some of the dizziness still remained. His nerves
occasionally twitched and he experienced a feeling of physical
exhaustion, all the more unpleasant because of his boyish fear that the
others might observe it.
It had required a considerable effort for him to tell his story, and a
still greater to enter into the general conversation.
Finally the thunder began to roll less frequently; the storm was
breaking away.
Soon afterward one of the mechanics stepped into the room to inform Don
that his machine had been found full of holes.
“Just a little bit more, and it would have made a capital piece of
mosquito netting, Monsieur l’Aviateur,” he declared.
“If I should happen to see any mosquitoes around here so big that they
couldn’t get through such holes I’d sure take that next train for home,”
guffawed Bobby Dunlap.
“And if I’d had a piece of mosquito netting manufactured for me by
German bullets, I wouldn’t even wait for the train; I’d start running,”
laughed the mechanic. He turned to Don.
“It’s a great wonder to me, Monsieur, that your nose and ears weren’t
clipped off.”
“I expected more than that to happen,” returned Don, with a faint smile.
At length Bobby Dunlap began to tell the hero of the afternoon about the
mysterious peasant.
“He’s a German spy, sure as shooting,” he whispered. “But don’t say
anything to the boys about it, Donny. George Glenn promised me he
wouldn’t.”
“Why not explain the matter to the lieutenant?” asked Don, quite
breathlessly.
Peur Jamais reflected an instant, then shook his head.
“I intended to at first,” he declared, “but, thinking it over, concluded
to wait until I could arrest the old bird myself and march him over here
at the point of a pistol. And, oh boy, that is going to make a bigger
sensation than your cooking the big sausage.”
“But he may slip away,” suggested Don.
“That idea struck me, too,” commented Peur Jamais, in a troubled tone.
“But”—he brightened up—“it will only mean that somebody else is going
to do the point-of-the-pistol act. Wouldn’t it make a dandy movie drama,
eh? And, just to think, Donny, if it hadn’t been for old Père Goubain I
might never have known what was going on.” Bobby laughed joyously.
“Crickets! I can hardly wait for the fireworks to begin.”
In the interest aroused by the story of the mysterious peasant, Don
almost forgot his fatigue. He could not remember ever having enjoyed a
supper more than he did that evening; and the sense of security and
freedom from all danger as they sat around after the meal proved most
pleasant and welcome.
On the following day Don Hale was in his Nieuport again, and performed
the usual two patrols of two hours each over the lines without meeting
with adventures.
Several weeks passed, and it was a time filled with enough narrow
escapes and thrilling incidents to last even an aviator a lifetime.
At length Don Hale’s day off arrived. Late in the afternoon he seated
himself comfortably by the window and spent the time in reading a book
and occasionally joining in the conversation about him. The
irrepressible Bobby Dunlap was in the room, as was also Jason Hamlin.
Finally the latter rose to his feet and began walking toward the door,
whereupon Bobby blurted out:
“I say, Jasy, have you seen the old peasant lately?”
Hamlin, who was one of those individuals who apparently dislike the
slightest familiarity, frowned, remarking briefly:
“Yes; just the other day.”
“I must say, this particular specimen is rather a dull looking old chap
until one gets to talking to him. Ever been over to his place, Hammy?”
“Yes,” answered Jason.
“So have I,” laughed Peur Jamais. “And there’s everything there but what
a farm ought to have. He must be using some method of growing vegetables
by wireless. By the way, Jason, ever go through that old ramshackle
house?”
“Only the first floor,” responded the other, adding abruptly: “Bobby,
several times I’ve overheard you making mysterious observations in
regard to that particular ‘specimen,’ who is a rather dull looking old
chap until one gets to talking to him. How would you like to offer an
explanation?”
Bobby’s expression swiftly changed. The laughing light left his eyes,
and, for an instant, he looked not only surprised but displeased.
“So you were in the house?” he cried. “Well, what did you find?”
“That the peasant was not altogether what he seemed. I heard you also
mention Sherlock Holmes, which would naturally suggest that you thought
of doing a little investigating. How about it?”
Bobby scowled quite fiercely.
“Really, Jasy, I’m quite surprised at you,” he declared. “Did you learn
how to eavesdrop in a correspondence school or did it just come
naturally?”
“One doesn’t have to eavesdrop when you’re around, Bobby,” returned
Hamlin. “You don’t know how to whisper.”
“Thanks, frightfully,” growled Bobby.
“Some people have ears so keen that they can even hear what isn’t
intended for them. Run outside and play. When I want to tell you
anything about the old peasant you’ll get it first hand. And as I notice
you seem to appreciate his company so much I won’t be impolite enough to
make any disparaging remarks about him.”
“Some people’s eyes are so sharp they can even see what isn’t intended
for them,” laughed Hamlin. “However, I won’t avail myself of your kind
permission to run out and play, but will take a walk instead.”
“Where?” asked Bobby.
“It’s a secret, but I’ll tell you. I’m going in the direction of my
destination. So-long, Messieurs. I’ll see you later.”
And, with a half mocking laugh and a wave of his hand, Hamlin
disappeared outside.
“I declare, that chap’s about the limit!” exclaimed Peur Jamais to Don
Hale. He lowered his voice. “You noticed, Donny, that he didn’t want to
tell us where he is going. I wonder if——” Bobby paused, looked
thoughtfully out of the window, scratched the back of his head, then
resumed: “Yes, I’ll bet that’s just it!”
“What is?” asked Don.
“That Jasy’s going over to see the old boy now. Say, Don, put up that
book, and see how near my deduction comes to the truth.”
“Which means, I suppose, that you’re going over there yourself?” asked
Don.
“You guessed it the first time. Coming?”
“Having aroused my curiosity so much about the mysterious peasant, I
think I will,” responded Don. “It adds a touch of activity to a day
otherwise full of perfect repose.”