FOR some days after the daring adventure recorded in our last chapter things had been fairly quiet along that portion of the Somme front, near the sector patrolled by the 'planes of the --th Squadron. There had been the usual daily reconnaissances over the enemy's lines; the usual spotting and registering for the artillery by the aeroplanes and the kite balloons, but the dull, cloudy weather had restricted the use of the 'planes to a great extent. One incident that had occurred, however, caused no little excitement, and awakened the professional curiosity of the pilots, observers and air-mechanics of the squadron. Late one afternoon a very small but swift aerial scout, in the shape of a new type of baby-monoplane, suddenly appeared over the aerodrome, and after circling round once or twice, made several rapid spirals and descended on to the grounds. It was no enemy machine, for the red, white and blue cocarde of the Allies was plainly visible upon the underside of the wings, and also on the rudder. No sooner had the ferry-pilot who had brought her over from England, made a landing, and climbed out of his tiny nascelle, than every pilot and observer who was about the place, and not on duty, gathered round to welcome the newcomer with the usual greeting, and to flood him with questions as to the new machine. Amongst the rest the Flight-Commander of "B" Flight could be seen talking and arguing with his friends. "Gee-whiz! But isn't she a beauty, boys?" he was heard to exclaim, as, with quite a boyish enthusiasm, he completed in less than two minutes his first brief examination of the machine. "By Jove, but she's a gem!" replied Mac, to whom the question had been more particularly addressed. "I've never seen anything like her," exclaimed another member of "B" Flight. "I don't think the Huns have anything to equal her." "Not even their Fokkers?" ventured one of the pilots, who was already seated in the little cockpit, trying her controls, for he was just longing to take her aloft. "And you came from London in an hour and a quarter?" asked Dastral of the ferry-pilot, helping him out of his thick leather coat. "Yes, quite easily," replied the latter. "And you never even pushed her?" "I never opened the throttle to the full till I rushed the Channel, half an hour ago." "And then you let her rip?" "Yes, I did then. She fairly seemed to leap over the English Channel. She touched one hundred and sixty miles, and for a while she quite frightened me." "Phew! I should think so. What the deuce shall we get to next? One hundred and sixty miles an hour! Great Scott! I'd give ten years of my life to meet Himmelman on her, when I've fairly tried her," said Dastral quietly.