The boys awaited patiently an invitation from the lieutenant to exhibit
their skill by upper-air exercise in one of the Taubes--the Germans
called their military monoplanes doves--but that officer did not seem
then inclined to favor one of the aviation field helpers above another.
A shock-headed boy, hailed as Max, who had been an ironworker in
Bremen, showed a decided disposition to “pick upon” Henri and Billy in
their daily occupation of valeting the aircraft.
He was nursing a jealous spirit, aroused by a chance word of praise
bestowed upon our Aviator Boys by Lieutenant Hume, and tried to enlist
the sympathy of the other employees of the hangars in common cause
against the “fancy fellows,” as he persisted in calling the newcomers.
But as a rule they were a good-natured lot, and not inclined to worry
about anything except a food shortage at meal time.
Max, before our boys had arrived, had claimed rank as first among those
serving the more noted aviators, who were constantly coming and going.
The climax of wrath with Max came when Ingold, the great aviator,
starting for the war zone, dispensed with his clumsy services and
accepted those of Billy and Henri in overhauling a double-decker, or
biplane, that was to be used in active military movement.
“You’ll get a cracked head for this,” hissed Max, when the lieutenant
and the big airman had passed out of hearing.
Billy, to whom the threat was addressed, did not understand the words,
but he guessed from the attitude of the threatener that something ugly
was intended.
So Billy, who never counted fear a burden worth the bother, simply
grinned, turned, and went on with his work of tuning the biplane.
Henri, tinkering at the motor end of the machine, looked up just in
time to see Max, wrench in hand, poised to strike at the back of
Billy’s head.
“Look out, Billy!”
The warning cry from Henri saved Billy from a stunning blow on the
head, but he caught the jolt from the wrench on his right shoulder, as
he swiftly faced about.
With a good left uninjured, however, Billy gave Max a short-arm jab
in the neck, at the chin, that tumbled the would-be slugger upon the
packed earth floor of the hangar.
“Good arm!” exclaimed Henri. “But how about the other?”
With the question, Henri gently worked his comrade’s right arm up and
down to see if there was any hitch in the shoulder where the wrench had
landed.
“Not a chance for a surgeon,” assured Billy. “Just a little
numb--that’s all.”
Max slowly gathered himself up from the ground, with a hand on his jaw,
and a vicious glitter in his eyes.
“It will be to the finish next time.”
His tone was full of menace.
“What’s he saying?” inquired Billy.
Henri translated.
“Tell him,” said Billy, “that the day and the hour is his very own to
name, so long as he comes in the front way.”
Henri did not comply with this request, but hooked arms with Billy, and
walked him away.
This was the glove in the ring that led to one of the liveliest
lightweight come-togethers that the aviation camp boys had ever
witnessed.
Neither Henri nor Billy had mentioned the wrench incident to the
lieutenant. They were too self-reliant for that kind of business. There
was nothing, either, to induce Max to relate his sorry part in the
hangar scrap.
It was not until several days later that Henri was approached by a lad
with the name handle of Jacob. The latter was apparently not a willing
messenger.
“Max wants a fight with your friend,” he explained, “and if it was me
he couldn’t get it, for he’s a tricky one and as strong as a bull. But
I just had to do this to get rid of him.”
“You tell that fellow that we don’t want anything to do with him,” was
Henri’s message to the challenger.
The next morning, while many of the machines were aloft in practice and
test flights, and the aviation helpers were grouped at the far end of
the parade ground, Max deliberately called Billy an unbearable name,
and followed the insult with a ringing slap on the cheek of the boy
from Bangor.
The fat was in the fire!
Instantly the circle widened, and in the center two husky youngsters
went at it hammer and tongs.
There were no gloves, no seconds, and no referee with rules up his
sleeve.
Billy ruled a strong favorite, but Henri alone made a noise about
it, for the others were reluctant to take a chance of offending Max,
unless they were assured in advance that he was going to be thoroughly
whipped.
It certainly did not appear that way in the opening of the bout, for
Max had gashed Billy’s forehead with a full knuckle blow, and also
landed a rib-cracker on the latter’s body.
Billy now sparred warily, seeking time to recover from the body blow,
which had proved the most serious, though the bleeding bruise on the
forehead made the most show of injury.
He kept his antagonist on the move, at the same time keeping out of
range of the fists swinging like windmills. Max had the strength, and a
certain skill as a rough-and-tumble fighter, but he also had too much
flesh on his bones, and little science as a boxer.
Billy was as clean built as a greyhound, muscled like a young
gladiator, and learned where to hit and how to hit under an old master
of the craft in Boston.
“Take your time, Billy,” encouraged Henri, “he’s a beef, and you’ll get
him all right.”
Henri’s blood was running warm at the sight of his chum’s bruised face,
and he would have violently resented any attempt to interfere in what
he firmly believed would result in payment in full by the loose fighter
who had provoked the battle and inflicted first injury.
Max began to exhibit distress from his exertions, which had ceased to
count since the opening onslaught. He struck hard, but he struck at
random. Enraged at the useless and wearing practice of hitting at
something where it was not, the panting slugger made the break to get
under Billy’s guard and clinch. It was a grievous error for him.
Billy, keen-eyed, caught him coming, and nothing but daylight between a
ready fist and the knockout point of a square chin.
Biff! There was everything behind that blow in the way of steam.
The Bremen lad had been coming too fast for the impact to hurl him
backward. He simply sagged at the knees, and dropped in a heap.
The fight was over, but not all of the trouble. Billy rushed to the
side of his fallen foe, who, showing the whites of his eyes and
rattling the breath in his throat, was viewed with alarm by the
witnesses of the exciting mill.
“Give him air,” hoarsely urged the victor to the crowding white faces.
Henri ran to a platform nearby where water buckets were placed, and the
chums gave all of the first aid in their experience to the vanquished.
Max, directly, recovered consciousness, and raised his head and dazedly
looked about him. Finding that his head was pillowed in Billy’s lap,
Max struggled to free himself from the sheltering embrace of the arm
that put him down and out.
Recovering speech, the way he expressed his chagrin and humiliation
was enough to make the air blue.
Jacob told him that he ought to be satisfied now, and Billy offered
truce by extended hand. Max, however, was far from the mood that finds
any consolation in defeat.
“Here comes the lieutenant,” announced Henri; “we’d better skip, Billy,
and patch up that face of yours before we are put on the question rack.”
All the boys scattered in pairs, or several more together, except Max,
and he walked alone, brooding, sullen, and implacable.
Billy had been washed clean of blood and holding a washer-plate of cold
steel against the bump on his forehead, when Jacob came into the hangar
with the information that the lieutenant had been calling for his pair
of late recruits, and wanted them forthwith.
“He’s heard about the fight,” was Henri’s first surmise.
“Do I look like a pug?” Billy inquired, lifting the plate from the
bruised spot.
“You will likely go into training on bread and water,” gloomily
predicted Henri.
“Oh, quit croaking,” advised Billy. “Come ahead, and we’ll take the
medicine, whatever it is.”
The lieutenant was framed in the flaps of his canvas house when the
boys presented themselves for supposed correction.
The officer calmly inspected the recruits through the smoke that
wreathed around the bowl of his meerschaum.