CHAPTER IV—“PENGUINS”

“I say, boy, wake up! Didn’t you hear the bugle sound? The reveillé! Wake up, for goodness’ sake! You’ll be late. It’s almost three-thirty now. You have that early morning feeling, eh?—a pippin of a feeling, too! I know, because I know!”

The sense of this string of words, jerked out with extraordinary rapidity by Roy Mittengale, was quite lost on Don Hale’s mental faculties, but, nevertheless, they had exactly the effect the speaker intended. With a start and a half-stifled gasp, the new student sat up.

Morning! Was it possible that morning had already come? Of course not! He hadn’t before suspected Mittengale of being a practical joker. Morning, indeed! He felt quite vexed—quite exasperated, in fact.

The effects his eyes took in were precisely similar to those he had seen on retiring—the same glimmering yellowish lights, the same lurking shadows, the long row of windows framing in the palish moonlight of the outside world.

He was about to protest. But before he had time the big room, all at once, became filled with noise and commotion—with the sounds of men jumping out of bed, of men talking, of men hurrying and bustling about as though their very lives depended upon the swiftness of their movements.

So, after all, Roy wasn’t a practical joker.

“All right! All right!” mumbled Don. “I’ll get right up.”

“You’d better,” continued Mittengale, laughingly.

Don Hale certainly had that early morning feeling, besides being cold and shivery; but, though he devoutly wished that he might enjoy a few minutes more of repose, he slipped off the mattress and fairly jumped into his clothes. By the time Don had finished dressing he was alone.

A swift dash for the door and a brisk run after leaving the barracks enabled him, however, to overtake speedily the more tardy students.

It was still a calm, serene moonlight night, with the stars dimmed by the greater lustre of the earth’s satellite, and no hint, no trace of color in the eastern sky to herald the approach of another day.

The destination of the hurrying crowd Don found was the wash-house situated not far away; and on arriving there he discovered that certainly “all the comforts of home” appeared to be lacking.

A dash of cold water over his face and arms made the boy feel the need of brisk exercise to counteract the effects of the damp, penetrating chilliness of that early matinal hour. Moisture glistened and sparkled on the tufts of grass, and low over the earth stretched long ghostly streamers of mist. High up in the heavens a flock of unseen crows, flying swiftly past, sent their cries far over the crisp, fresh air, but, rapidly, distance softened and then stifled the unmusical chorus.

A rush back to the barracks with the rest of the students put warmth into Don Hale’s shivery frame.

“Get in line, son, for the roll call,” commanded Tom Dorsey.

In an orderly double column the students ranged themselves alongside the barracks, an officer appeared and the formality began.

Proudly, the new student answered “present” as he heard his name pronounced by the officer.

“Now I suppose we’ll get a bite to eat,” he remarked to Mittengale, when the men broke ranks.

“Your ‘suppose’ is all wrong,” chuckled the other. “Now you’ll learn what you’re up against.”

“I suspect I’m up against a joker,” laughed Don.

But, again, his suspicion proved to be quite unfounded. The men were forming in line, and a few minutes later the march for the flying field began. The day for which Don Hale had looked forward so long—so expectantly—actually had come. His nerves, responding to the emotions aroused within him, were tingling, but tingling in a most delightful fashion.

The very faintest trace of delicate color, announcing the coming of day, now slowly began to suffuse itself in the eastern sky. It was a cheerless and a gloomy hour, not an hour, surely, for drooping spirits to be abroad; but, fortunately, there appeared to be no drooping spirits among that semi-military line of marching men.

Gradually the long row of curved-roofed hangars, partially hidden by the veils of mists, loomed forth more clearly. Before the head of the line had reached the first of the immense flying fields—there were three—numerous mechanics were rolling rather battered-looking little monoplanes from beneath the protecting shelter of the canvas coverings and placing them side by side in long lines.

“I say, my young knight of the air, cast your optics upon the ‘penguins,’” called Mittengale, who happened to be marching just ahead.

Don Hale, however, required no such invitation. He was already studying the machines with the most intense—the most eager interest. “Penguins,” he knew, are Bleriot monoplanes, the wings of which have been so shortened as to render the machines powerless to lift themselves from the ground; hence the rather curious appellation of “penguins,” birds of that name not being able to fly.

Certainly the “penguins” had an extraordinary fascination for the new candidate. To his active mind they suggested huge dragon-flies—all ready to wing their way lightly to other parts.

A few moments later the boy was standing before the nearest machine. Now every semblance to a military line had vanished. Students, moniteurs, mechanics and laborers were all mingling together before the hangars.

Some time later, while he was still regarding the machines with an absorbing degree of interest, the voice of the head instructor broke sharply in upon his thoughts.

In loud tones he was calling out the names of various students and designating the numbers of the machine they were to use. Immediately the future airmen began jumping into their places, and before many moments had passed every “penguin” in the long line had an occupant.

“Goodness! I certainly feel like an outsider,” murmured Don. “I reckon I’d better hunt up the sergeant and——”

At that second the air became surcharged with a series of startling staccato explosions, with roars, great crashes and bangs, quite ear-splitting in their intensity—the motors were being tested. Gradually the rising crescendo, suggestive of some strange, wild symphony, reached its greatest climax, and then as slowly began to subside. And presently, in its place, came the soft, pleasant drone and hum of many smoothly-working motors and propellers.

Now the highly interested Don Hale saw the assistants removing the blocks from beneath the wheels of the “penguins” and heard the moniteurs giving their pupils a few final words of advice.

“By Jove, don’t I wish I were in one of ’em!” he muttered. “Ah!”

The assistants were giving the propellers of some of the nearer machines a swift turn; and as the whirling blades became but misty circles the strange “birds” got into action.

“By Jove!”

This time Don Hale uttered the exclamation aloud.

A number of “penguins” had begun to “taxi” across the field, and were soon traveling at a most tremendous speed. Some twisted and staggered about, as though, every instant, they must topple over sideways and smash their wings against the turf. Others exhibited every indication of halting their onward rush and spinning around and around like a top, while still others, as straight and true as a swift breeze tearing its way across the countryside, kept rapidly growing smaller and fainter in the distance.

Yes, it truly was a remarkable spectacle that Don Hale had before his eyes. In the semi-darkness of that chill and early hour, the rushing “penguins” seemed to resemble a flock of huge birds, full of life, full of keen intelligence, rather than man-made machines.

There was a thrill and spice about the scene, too, which caused involuntary gasps to frequently come from the mouth of the student. Now and again, “penguins,” while traveling at a headlong pace, seemed about to smash into one another. The boy almost held his breath.

“Ah!”

One was down. Another, hustling past the fallen “bird,” just graced its broken wing. The game, even in the beginner’s class, was clearly not without its dangers.

Now the most skilfully handled machines had reached their destination—the flag at the other end of the field—and were returning as though borne on the blasts of a hurricane. From faint, insignificant whitish specks they became huge winged creatures in a moment of time, seemingly intent upon crashing their tempestuous way into the groups of moniteurs, mechanics and assistants and even through the hangars themselves.

The tense-faced pilots, however, stopped the engines in time, and, one after another, the “penguins” docilely came to a halt.

“Grand sport, sure enough!” cried Don, delightedly. He would have imparted this thought to others, too, but for the fact that not one among those all around him was paying the slightest attention to his presence. It gave Don a rather unpleasant feeling, as though he was of very little importance. It also served to make him decide to report to the sergeant of the first class at once.

Accordingly, he began walking toward the nearest group; and then, for the first time, he caught a glimpse of several of the Annamites attached to the aviation camp. Picturesque-looking little chaps they were, and unmistakably of the Orient from their yellow complexion and slanting, beady eyes to their small and stocky stature. They were about to cross the field. What was the meaning of that intrusion?

All at once Don Hale understood; and, instinctively, his eyes were turned toward the fallen “penguin,” which, like a wounded bird brought low by the huntsman’s bullet, lay where misfortune had overtaken it. A little crowd was collecting, and soon he discovered three distant figures moving slowly toward the hangars, the one in the centre supported by those on either side.

“The pilot must have been injured,” thought Don, commiseratingly.

In what seemed to be a very short time to him the sun was almost on the horizon, and eagerness to begin his task was gripping him with a strange intensity; no small boy with a lively and joyous anticipation of a visit to the “greatest show on earth” could have experienced more pleasurable sensations, and a glance toward the flying fields beyond served to even further increase them. Above the one adjoining, Bleriot monoplanes were flying at low altitudes; still further in the distance he could see airplanes piloted by more advanced members of the third and fourth class momentarily mounting in the air. The flying fields were beginning to show a pleasant warmth of color, and the Farnum and Caudron machines, high aloft, catching the sun’s reflections, sent them constantly flashing earthward. These planes possessed a certain grace, but they were heavy and clumsy craft indeed compared to several single-seaters—Nieuport or Spad machines. These far outclassing the swiftest of the feathered tribe in their flight, darted in and out, swooped downward from dizzy heights or climbed upward until their wings appeared as the faintest gossamer lines against the soft, purplish tones of the sky.

As Don set off in his quest for the sergeant the majority of the “penguins” were racing and tearing about the field in the most extraordinarily erratic fashion.

Sergeant Girodet was easily found, but, to Don Hale’s intense disappointment, the officer informed him that he would have to wait until the afternoon session, adding rather dryly:

“Monsieur will be safe and sound for several hours longer.”

Don laughed, rejoining:

“And for a good many hours after that, I hope.”

The Annamites were now bringing in the wrecked and battered plane, headed for the repair shops, vast structures employing hundreds and hundreds of skilled mechanics and helpers. As they were near by and the night shift still at work, Don concluded to pay them a brief visit before journeying to the field where the third class, of which T. Singleton Albert was a member, flew in real airplanes to a height of no less than twenty-five feet.

And just at this time the boy was overjoyed to hear a familiar, cheery voice shouting:

“Hello, Don! Hello, old chap!”

Turning quickly, he spied his chum approaching.

“My, but I’m jolly glad to see you, George!” he called. “Playing the part of a wallflower isn’t a pleasant outdoor sport.”

“Well, it’s good you don’t get up in the air about it,” replied George, laughingly. “That’s right—always keep your feet on the ground.”

“I’ll try to, even when I’m a few miles high,” chirped Don.

George agreeing to Don’s plan, the two began traveling after the guttural-speaking Annamites.

“It strikes me ‘penguins’ ought to be easily managed,” declared Don, reflectively. “One just has to drive them in a straight line across the piste.”

“Yes, that’s all,” replied George. A twinkling light shone in his eyes. “But——”

“Difficult, eh, old chap?”

And though George nodded emphatically, Don, nevertheless, felt strongly inclined to think that when once in the pilot’s seat he would surprise not only his chum but a few others as well.

Shortly afterward the two reached the machine and repair shops.

CHAPTER V—TRAINING

Americans, of course, enjoyed a great popularity all over France, and, therefore, Don and George were welcome guests at the shops, which resembled huge manufacturing plants. They immediately found themselves surrounded by another kind of activity. The din and hum of machinery, the clanging of hammers, the explosive reports of motors vibrated over the air, all symbolizing, as it were, by means of sound, progress and labor.

“They build airplanes here as well as repair them,” explained George.

As the two walked from one point to another Don Hale marveled at what he saw. The framework of hulls and of main planes, the latter with their strong but slender supporting spars, stood in long rows. Everywhere skilled artisans, ordinary mechanics, and helpers worked on various parts of the planes. In the assemblage department Don and George stopped to watch the winged creations, one of the latest products of man’s inventive genius, being put together. A foreman greeted them pleasantly.

“And what do the young Americans think of all this?” he inquired.

“Simply wonderful!” responded Don, enthusiastically.

“Very true!” agreed the men. “Ah! the art of airplane construction has advanced amazingly since the great world war began, mes Americaines. It is now a very exact science, where the laws bearing upon lateral and longitudinal balance, as well as many other things, have to be rigorously observed.”

“I believe that before 1914 the German equipment in the way of airplanes and dirigible balloons was greatly superior to either that of the French or English,” commented George.

“Yes, the Boches had been doing everything in their power to encourage the development of both types of machines, while the other nations, unmindful of the peril which menaced them, were satisfied to let the course of events in that particular direction merely drift along.”

“The Germans are said to have had, in addition to a fleet of huge Zeppelins, almost a thousand airplanes of the finest construction, while their aeronautical factories were rushing work on others,” put in George. “France possessed only about three hundred machines and England still less, probably as few as two hundred and fifty.”

“The Germans at that time held the world’s record for height and sustained flying,” declared Don Hale.

“Correct,” admitted the artisan. “They thought, too, that with the supremacy of their navy of the air, the supremacy of Great Britain’s fleet on the sea could be more than overcome and England invaded. But”—the Frenchman clenched his fists—“our enemies—your enemies—the enemies of the entire world realize at last their error. They failed! They failed! The supremacy of the air now rests with the Allies.”

“And yet, for a while, the Germans had the best scouting and fighting planes,” commented George.

“Yes; the Fokkers. But La France replied to that challenge by constructing the famous Nieuport, the swiftest, the most easily maneuvered airplane that flies. Come! Let me show you a sample.”

Don and George, smiling a little at the tremendous earnestness exhibited by the Frenchman, followed him to another part of the great shop, where the most skilled workers were putting the finishing touches to several Nieuports of the latest model. They were delicate but staunch little machines—their lines as graceful as those of any yacht; and each was finished with a degree of care and attention to detail which scarcely seemed warranted when the perilous nature of the career they were so soon to embark upon was considered.

“What perfect beauties!” cried Don. “Crickets, George! Don’t I wish all my training period were over, so that I could sail sky-high in one of these little rockets!”

“The speed of a rocket, Don, wouldn’t do you very much good while flying over the fighting front,” replied his chum, rather grimly.

Don, too impatient, too restless to remain much longer indoors, soon started off with the other at his side. And all the while the obliging artisan kept imparting interesting bits of information. He told them something about the giant bi-motored Caudron, the Handley-Page and the Caproni, each type of machine representing the highest achievement in airplane building by the respective countries of France, England and Italy.

“The Boches,” he added, with a scowl, “have the Gothas.”

“I remember reading that some of the Gothas which bombed London had a wing-spread of seventy-eight feet, with motors of two hundred and sixty horse power, and carried, besides three men, hundreds of pounds of explosives,” remarked Don.

“Seventy-eight feet is nothing these days,” commented the Frenchman, musingly. “A hundred and fifty is more like it. You and I, mes Americaines, will live to see the time when huge flyers, with comfortable accommodations for passengers, can cross the Atlantic, linking still closer the old world and the new.”

Their volunteer guide now conducted the boys to another department, where they saw many women engaged in sewing together breadths of fine linen cloth destined to be stretched over the skeleton frames.

“Billions have been spent and are being expended in the airplane industry,” continued the man. “Even piano and furniture factories and many others have turned their attention to the fabrication of airplane parts, such as struts, ribs and propellers. And all this, in connection with aeronautic machinery, means work for thousands of mechanics. Vast quantities of raw material are required. Airplanes must be housed: therefore the erection of hangars and other types of buildings will employ thousands more. Then, the training of aviators, too, is a pretty expensive operation.”

“I suppose so,” laughed Don. “However, I’ll try to let ’em down as easily as I can. Coming, George?”

After heartily thanking the obliging artisan for his courtesy the two left the busy shops.

By this time the slowly-rising sun was casting its first pale and delicate tints over the earth. And with these rays the gloom which had taken possession of nature for so many hours began to lift. The dull and lifeless landscape, freed from the embracing mists, took on an aspect of quiet beauty and charm, and drops of dew shone and sparkled like “many a gem of purest ray serene.”

At a brisk walk Don and George set out for the distant aviation field, and before very long the ever moving “penguins” were left far to the rear. Now Don and his chum had an excellent view of the real flying machines, as they winged their way in straight flights from one end of the piste to the other, or taxied over the ground to rise in the air with amazing ease and lightness.

Another crowd of moniteurs, students and mechanicians stood around, the moniteurs following the movements of the planes with the most critical attention.

One after another the flyers alighted, some with ease and precision; some striking the earth sufficiently hard to have thrown the pilot out had he not been buckled to his seat.

“Whew! I’ll bet lots of planes are smashed!” cried Don.

“You win,” said George, dryly. “Hello! Look at the machine which just made that bully landing. Whom do you see on the pilot’s seat?”

“Goodness gracious! As I live, it’s Drugstore!” burst out Don.

But as Don, unmindful of the moniteurs or the crowd, left George’s side and rushed up to congratulate him on his success, T. Singleton Albert’s face didn’t have at all its usual half shy and modest look. Instead, it rather suggested the expression worn by some mighty hero on the occasion of his greatest triumph.

“Did you see me?” cried Drugstore, breathlessly.

“I should say so!” exclaimed Don.

“Flying!—Why, there’s nothing to it, son. Oh, boy! Only a perfect boob couldn’t handle these ships.” Drugstore almost stuttered in his elation and excitement. “But, take it from me, son, some of these chaps here couldn’t learn to drive an ash cart. Hello! I say, Rogers”—he raised his voice—“did you see me that time? I brought her down so easily I didn’t even rumple the grass.”

“You’re up in the air right now, Singleton,” chortled Rogers.

Albert, who had a pretty good command of French, swelled up with even greater pride as he listened to the moniteur’s “C’est bien fait, mon ami—it was well done, my friend.”

“I’ll soon be bumping into the clouds,” he declared, a confident grin on his face.

The machine was quickly turned around by several Annamites, and then Drugstore, yelling loudly for every one to get out of the way, started his motor full blast; whereupon the monoplane began to glide swiftly ahead. As the machine attained a speed of about forty miles an hour it gracefully left the terrestrial globe several yards behind, and, like an arrow shot from the archer’s bow, cut through the still, silent air toward its distant goal.

“Some flyer, that baby!” laughed Rogers.

And, indeed, his comments were just. Very few of the other students were approaching Albert’s performance. Their landings were generally faulty—so faulty, in fact, as to endanger the safety of plane and flyer alike.

It was only a very short time before Drugstore’s plane was seen returning. Don Hale watched the machine rapidly growing larger with breathless interest, fearful that Albert’s great flush of enthusiasm might have engendered so great a confidence in his ability as to threaten his efforts with disaster. Exactly at the proper moment, however, exactly in the proper way, the Bleriot dipped; and then, exactly in the proper manner, it struck the earth, and, after rolling a certain distance, came to a halt.

“Well, who said I couldn’t learn to fly!” shouted Drugstore, hilariously. “Whoop! It’s easier than slopping soda-water over a shiny counter. Oh, boy, I’ll soon be able to give an eagle lessons!”

It was now another pupil’s turn to take the machine, and Albert, releasing the restraining straps about his body, jumped stiffly to the ground. His gait for several moments became so noticeably uncertain as to bring forth a volley of humorous observations.

“Success has gone to his head!” cried one.

“To his feet, you mean!” chuckled a second.

“If that grin of his grows any wider his face may be seriously injured!” chirped another.

“Speech, Drugstore, speech!” howled a fourth.

If Albert had been his usual self all this attention and good-natured raillery would probably have brought a flush to his cheeks. At that moment, however, Albert wasn’t quite himself. He forgot to stammer and look embarrassed as he declared importantly:

“Let’s see some of you chaps beat it. Oh, boy, just a little while, and I’ll be shooting up to hit the blue!”

Naturally Albert’s very excellent work fired Don Hale with an even greater desire to begin his apprenticeship at the fascinating game of flying. The sun had never seemed to ascend so slowly. Hours and hours must pass before he could make his start. Really, it was quite a strain on his nerves.

At nine o’clock work was over for the morning, and the students trailed back to the barracks, where they were privileged to remain until five. The particular crowd which occupied the Hotel d’Amerique found a newcomer awaiting them. He was a very rosy-cheeked young chap; and from his uniform, still showing plentiful traces of mud and hard usage, it was seen that he, too, had once been a soldier in the famous Foreign Legion.

“My name is Dan Hagen,” he announced, pleasantly. “I’m from Dublin.”

“Ah ha, boys, we now have with us Dublin Dan!” chortled Roy Mittengale.

And that was the way in which Dan Hagen received a new christening, and one that he accepted with a boisterous, rollicking laugh.

“Call me anything; but don’t call me down,” he said. “I say, how’s flying to-day?”

“As usual, up in the air,” laughed Tom Dorsey.

“Next to me, who’s the newest greeny?”

A half dozen or so fingers were pointed toward Don Hale; a half dozen or so voices gave the desired information.

“Shake, old man!” exclaimed Dublin Dan, extending a big rough hand. “It’s a race between us to see which shall be the first to feel the caressing touches of the wind-blown clouds on our cheeks.”

“I’m on!” laughed Don.

“I say, did you see me land on my last trip?”

T. Singleton Albert voiced this query. It was addressed to no one in particular; and as no one in particular paid the slightest attention to it Drugstore became quite peeved.

“Jealous, eh?” he jeered, with unexpected bravado. “Jealous! Oh, boy! but my cheeks’ll soon feel the caressing touches of these wind-blown clouds. Some joyous expression that, eh?”

“It doesn’t beat yours at the present moment,” declared big Sid Marlow, with a hearty laugh.

Don Hale soon discovered that there was little military discipline about the camp. The students were perfectly free to amuse themselves in any way their fancy dictated, though Cal Cummings informed him that on lecture days absence from the classes was considered a pretty serious offense.

“I’d never want to play hooky,” declared Don, smilingly.

The day, wearing on, brought with it plenty of heat; therefore the shelter of the barracks was soon sought by the majority. Little comfort could be found inside, however. Swarms of flies—“of every known size—of every known species”—so Dublin Dan declared, also used it as a hotel; and, not being of a bashful disposition, they made themselves unpleasantly conspicuous. At one o’clock the little pests were sole masters of the situation, while the crowd joined other crowds in the spacious mess-hall.

During the meal T. Singleton Albert, having been heard to remark: “I say, did you see that last landing I made?” was loudly and insistently called upon to make a speech. Thereupon, he suddenly grew red in the face, and when forced to his feet by strong-arm methods stammered and stuttered to such a degree that the boys, perceiving that he had once more become the old, timid, shy Drugstore, mercifully let him alone.

Following lunch a game of baseball was played between two well-matched teams, one of them being captained by Victor Gilbert. Gilbert’s team won, which Cal Cummings declared was not strange at all, considering the fact that Victor had at one time been a crack player on a college baseball club.

After the game was over, Don, George and Dublin Dan set out for the aviation field together.

CHAPTER VI—DUBLIN DAN

Don Hale, standing before a much battered and bespattered “penguin,” experienced a delightful thrill, which ran through his entire being. Brimming over with ambition, equally full of confidence, he could see nothing ahead of him but success.

The moniteur in whose charge Don and several others were placed was a rather youthful and pleasant-spoken Frenchman. In a quick, incisive fashion, he began to give a little lecture on the airplane.

“The body is known as the fuselage,” he explained. “At the front and just beneath the wings, as you see, is the engine and propeller. This particular type of plane, and in fact the majority, are drawn and not pushed through the air. The pilot is seated in the cockpit immediately behind the motor. Two rudders and two ailerons are placed at the rear of the fuselage. The former, vertical, and used for steering the plane horizontally, are operated by a cross-piece of wood upon which the pilot rests his feet. The ailerons are horizontal, connected with a control stick by means of wires, and, of course, tilt the plane either up or down. The control stick is an upright lever in front of the pilot’s seat. These are details, however, that you need not bother with now. Monsieur Hale, take your place in number thirty-five. Monsieur Hagen may use number twelve.”

Both boys immediately followed instructions, and, after each had securely fastened the belt designed to prevent an unceremonious exit from the plane, the moniteur explained, first to one and then the other, the proper handling of the engine and rudders.

“The two most important things to remember,” he said, “are to keep the tail off the ground and the engine going at full speed.”

With his nerves at the keenest tension, Don Hale waited for the command to start. Out of the corner of his eye he could see groups standing by the machine, watching him, it seemed, in deadly silence. The familiar figure of George Glenn among them nerved the boy to do his utmost.

“Ready, sir?” asked the mechanician standing by the propeller.

“Ready!” answered Don.

“Throw on the switch!”

With a hand that trembled in spite of all his efforts to control it, Don Hale obeyed.

The mechanician whirled the propeller, and in another moment the motor was emitting a deafening roar; and in still another the “penguin,” as though suddenly endowed with life, began a headlong flight over the rather uneven ground.

With all his senses keenly alert, Don Hale felt the rushing wind fanning his cheeks; and a sort of wild exhilaration took possession of him as the “penguin,” like a runaway locomotive, sent the ground speeding behind at a rate which fairly dazzled his eyes.

But why did the “penguin” wobble and stagger in such an extraordinary manner?

The more desperately Don strove to assert his authority over the man-made bird the more he seemed to lose his control. Now he felt it swinging to the left; then, a too hasty push with his foot on the steering apparatus threatened to send it wildly careening off to the right. Above the roar of the motor he could faintly hear the shouts and yells of the crowd which he was leaving so far behind.

The confidence which Don had felt before jumping into the machine was given a rude and unpleasant jolt; and, besides this, the speed and erratic movements of the “penguin” were so bewildering as to make the boy lose, for a moment, his usual coolness. The sudden thought, too, that George Glenn was witnessing the almost absurd capering of the “penguin” served only to add to his discomfiture and apprehension.

In his tremendous eagerness to conquer the difficulties, Don made a sudden movement with the control stick, lifting the tail high off the ground, and at the same time he added to his mistake by pushing the rudder too far around. The result was almost terrifying. The “bird,” as though roused to sudden fury by his action, began to whirl around and around, its speed seeming to increase with each passing second.

Dazed and dizzy the pilot had just sufficient presence of mind left to shut off the power. But the “penguin” had already begun to somersault.

Don Hale experienced a chilling and sickening fear. So suddenly that he could scarcely realize what had happened, the airplane tumbled over. He heard the sound of breaking supports and felt the impact of a blow. Then he found himself pinned to the ground amidst a mass of wreckage.

Several seconds elapsed before he could think coherently enough to decide that beyond a few bruises and scratches he had not been injured. And, although the “penguin” was as motionless as though it had never made a movement in the whole of its checkered career, the ground still seemed to be whirling rapidly before his eyes. But the dizziness, the pains and aches he was experiencing were as nothing compared to his disillusionment. He had fully expected to make a grand and triumphal trip straight across the flying piste to the flag which marked the end of the course and to hear the plaudits of George, the praise of the moniteur and the comments of the admiring crowd. And here he was—in an undignified heap, with the breath almost knocked out of his body, and responsible for the ending of the tempestuous career of what had been but a few moments before a staunch and sturdy “penguin.”

Oh yes, he must have surprised his chum George Glenn—of that there couldn’t be the slightest doubt!

As Don began painfully to extricate himself, with grim forebodings of what the consequences of the disaster might be, he became conscious of the fact that from almost every point people were running in his direction. He felt the hot blood rushing to his face; he experienced a feeling, too, somewhat akin to anger—for his sharp ears had caught what sounded suspiciously like bursts of hilarious laughter.

And, to add to the boy’s discomfiture, he caught sight of a “penguin,” wobbling and shaking like a ship in a raging sea, approaching. He had one brief, instantaneous glimpse of a tremendously grinning face—that of Dublin Dan’s—as the machine lurched swiftly past. A short time later the foremost of the crowd bore down upon him.

“Are you hurt, Don? Are you hurt?” cried George Glenn, breathlessly.

“No—no!” jerked out Don.

And, as though these words were a signal for a jollification to begin, roars of laughter and howls of merriment broke loose on every side. The students were not averse, it seemed, to enjoying the humor of the situation.

“We have seen the human spinning-top!” guffawed one.

“What a wonderful merry-go-round!” gurgled another. “Sixty miles an hour without budging an inch!”

“Say, boy, wasn’t that enough to make you remember it?” chirped a third.

“You were chasing your tail so fast you nearly caught up with it,” chimed in a fourth. “At any rate, it’s certainly a case for the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Birds, even though it was a tough old rooster.”

Now Don Hale, quite unsteady on his feet, having a jumping throb in his forehead, and being, besides, in a very disgusted state of mind, could not, of course, enter into the spirit of jollification, yet, nevertheless, by a strong effort of the will, he managed to control his tongue and temper.

“I’m glad you enjoyed the impromptu performance, boys,” he said, pleasantly. “I don’t believe I’ll ever be able to equal it again. Ah——”

This “ah!” uttered with the most peculiar intonation, was brought from his lips by the mere fact of his eyes having caught those of the moniteur.

But instead of the angry, steely expression he had expected to see the boy was amazed to observe that the Frenchman appeared as unconcerned as though the incident was of the most trivial character. Yet even this did not take away the fear that he was in for a neat little “bawling out.”

“Monsieur Hale, one sometimes learns more by his mistakes than by his triumphs,” were the words he heard, however. The instructor spoke in genial tones. “Let us hope that it will be true in this case! Come!—now for another trial!”

Like a flash, Don Hale’s mood was changed; his usual buoyancy reasserted itself, and he was now as well able to laugh over his adventure as any of the others. He also had very grateful feelings toward the moniteur for his forbearance.

“Dublin Dan’s ahead in the race so far!” he exclaimed, laughingly, to his chum George Glenn.

“Never mind! The day isn’t over yet,” said George, with a smile.

Full of ardor, full of determination to retrieve himself, the élève pilot took the lead in marching back to the starting point.

There were always two things on the practice field which well testified to the hazardous nature of the work; a fleet of extra “penguins” and an ambulance. One of the former was very quickly rolled into place by the assistants. And Don, his ears assailed by a multitude of suggestions and words of advice, climbed at once to his seat.

By this time numerous other “penguins,” at widely separated points, were traveling over the field. Number twelve, Dan’s machine, could actually be seen racing toward them on the home stretch; and in an incredibly short space of time the dull gray wings loomed up strongly against the turf. Following a few extraordinary movements, the machine stopped abruptly, and from the occupant of the pilot’s seat there immediately came a series of loud and boisterous hurrahs.

“Maybe I didn’t have a bully trip!” he shouted. “Thought at first, though, I couldn’t stop the engine, and that I’d have to go clean around the whole earth and come back again. But say, old stay-in-one-place, I can almost feel, even now, the caressing touches of those wind-blown clouds on my cheeks.”

“Well, that’s a great deal better than feeling the caresses of the hard earth, as I did a few moments ago,” laughed Don.

“Allez, allez! En route!”^[2] commanded the moniteur.

Don, experiencing the same measure of confidence he had had before, though it was now tempered by a much greater respect for the difficulties of the task, waited expectantly.

“Now!” he breathed.

The blades were revolving; the engine began its deafening roar—and, once more, Don was flying over the turf as though hurled from the mouth of a catapult. The new pilot had learned his lesson well. He realized that a firm though delicate movement of the controls is necessary to assure safety and success.

Faster, still faster, the “penguin” tore ahead; and though its movements were far from being smooth it kept to a comparatively straight course, only occasionally displaying an alarming tendency to turn over on its face.

Almost breathless from the effects of the violent wind which continually beat against his face, and as jubilant as a few moments before he had been in despair, Don Hale kept his eyes fixed intently on the flag ahead; and there grew in him a curious feeling that he was being carried along by some wild, unruly runaway. One moment the flag had appeared dim and small in the distance; the next it rose large and sharply defined.

The young pilot switched off the power, the “penguin” began to diminish speed and after running many yards beyond the goal stopped its headlong flight.

That was certainly a proud moment to the new candidate. The stain of his former defeat was now entirely wiped away. He was convinced that, after all, he had made an auspicious beginning.

“Much good!” exclaimed one of the Annamites, who was stationed in the field to turn the machines around. “One grand fly!”

“Thanks!” laughed Don. “And I’ll do better next time.”

He was, however, to have his confidence a little shaken on the return trip; for the “bird,” apparently without any reason at all, showed an almost irresistible tendency to fly off at a tangent, first in one direction and then another. And when this was finally overcome it seemed to display an equally ardent desire again to bury its nose in the turf. Several times Don had alarming visions of another inglorious smash.

It was, therefore, with the greatest feelings of relief that he again brought the machine to a stop.

And before this had been accomplished he heard George Glenn shout:

“Great—great! Well done, old chap!”

“Surprised, George?” asked Don, gleefully, when he could catch his breath.

“No; there are never any surprises on an aviation field,” laughingly rejoined the other.

“Vous avez fait de progres, mon ami,”^[3] commended the moniteur. “Better take a few moments’ rest before starting in again.”

Don Hale thought so, too. Naturally, he hadn’t quite recovered from the effects of his exhilarating experience. His pulse was beating a trifle hard, and, unaccustomed to the rushing wind which had beaten so relentlessly upon him, there still remained some of its effects.

“I’m in a better position now to appreciate the feelings of Drugstore,” laughed Don to a little knot gathered about him. “Honestly, I think flying must be the greatest sport in the world.”

“It’s certainly the highest,” chirped Tom Dorsey.

“You’ve got the right idea, son,” chimed in Gene Shannon. “Treat the old birds gently, and you’ll soon be in a position to treat the Boches rough.”

For a while Don was content to watch the antics of the “penguins,” which were now swarming over the field in great numbers, and, as on every previous occasion, he found plenty of thrills in the sight—collisions narrowly averted and machines performing the “chevaux de bois,” as the French say, which, freely translated, means acting like a merry-go-round.

Some time later on he was off in the airplane again, and shot forth and back across the field a number of times, with generally fair success, before taking another welcome rest.

Equally pleased over the afternoon’s work was Dublin Dan; and he proclaimed his satisfaction in a loud and boisterous manner.

“You won’t find me encouraging the scrap heap industry,” he chuckled. “I’m going to tear right through this course and hit the next before I’m many days older.”

“Well, so long as you don’t hit me I’m satisfied,” said Don, with a laugh.

“Never mind. Don’t crow too soon,” interjected the pessimistic Ben Holt. “You chaps are a long way from the sky yet. It’s pretty blue up there; and I’ve seen a few fellows just as blue when they couldn’t make it.”

“I’ll see red if I don’t make it,” chirped Dan.

A few minutes later Dublin Dan was taxiing across the field, while Don leisurely prepared to follow his example—in fact, so leisurely that it was not until number twelve was seen returning that he opened the throttle and sent the “penguin” at full speed ahead.

Ever mindful of the danger of collision, the boy was particularly careful to give the oncoming machine plenty of room, for, owing to the tremendously high rate of speed at which they were traveling, it would be only a few moments before the machines were abreast of one another.

Don Hale noticed that number twelve had suddenly begun to act in the most wildly erratic manner—so much so, indeed, as to suggest that the pilot must have gone all to pieces.

What was the matter? How did it happen that the unusually promising pupil should have lost control of his machine?

And while these thoughts were flashing through his mind he suddenly became filled with a chilling sense of dismay and fear; for number twelve had deviated from its course and was bearing down upon him in a zigzagging line with almost the speed of a lightning express.