At this moment the mess sergeant appeared to announce that dinner was laid in the pilots' mess, and away they all went, laughing and joking, as though they had been discussing nothing more or less than a county cricket match. That night, however, as soon as the meal was over, instead of the usual rubber of whist, or game of chess, Dastral and Fisker went into the little bunk where they slept, and, locking the door, they brought out maps, sketches, and diagrams, and, until midnight, they were hard at work, by the kindly flicker of a little shaded lamp, evolving scheme after scheme, until at length they agreed upon a little plan, which they decided to put into operation on the morrow. Then they turned in, and slept for four or five hours, having given strict orders to the mess attendant to call theirs before reveille. Half an hour before reveille Dastral was down in the hangar, where his new aeroplane was sheltered. Though it had been carefully examined overnight by the air-mechanics, yet he could trust no one but himself to finally inspect the machine. He examined every strut and wire, every nut and bolt, oiling and testing the engine, controls, and half a hundred other little things that make up the delicate mechanism of a modern aeroplane. At length he was satisfied, and lit a cigarette, while Fisker shipped the Lewis gun, packed the drums of ammunition, fixed the baby wireless, saw to the bomb carriers, maps, charts, and everything else that concerned him. Soon, they were ready, and, having snatched a hurried breakfast, they wrapped themselves in their warm leathern coats, and were helped into their pilot's boots by one of the air-mechanics, whose duty it was to guard the machines. They drew their leathern helmets tightly about their cars, and encased their hands in thick gloves, then climbed into the 'plane. Half a dozen air-mechanics wheeled the "wasp" out into the open, where the level ground of the aerodrome offered a good "take-off." Then they waited for a moment, while the O.C. himself came down, and handed to Dastral an envelope containing his special permit to leave his flight, and to act as a free lance for that day; the matter having been arranged between them. "Good-bye, Dastral, and a good day's sport to you, my lad!" said the major, who stood on tiptoe to shake hands with the pilot and observer. "Good-bye, sir," replied Dastral, his hand already on the joy-stick. "Start the propeller," came the order from the cock-pit. "Yes, sir," cried an air-mechanic, who sprang forward and swung the propeller once or twice. "Zip-p-p-p--Zip--Whir-r-r-r!" came the sound, as Dastral started the engine, and the air seemed to vibrate with the song of the aeroplane, which has a music all its own. "Stand clear!" came the final order, and as the mechanics leapt back, and withdrew the wooden chocks, the buzzing, waspish little thing taxied swiftly across the level stretch of grass, then leapt into the air.