Then he had probably slid into my seat himself, and in some way pulled my far from minute body up beside him. He had flown the bomber back into Cleveland, amateur as he was at airmanship, and stanched my wound and let his own bleed. When I arrived at the field all the gang were there. The leading flyers of the border, the California fields and even from Panama, Hawaii and the Philippines, were on the job practising for the big chance. And Marston was still the hero of the field. I got my flight back, and went to see him right away. “Thanks, Marston,” I said as we shook hands. “Don’t bother yourself, Lieutenant,” he returned in his rasping voice. The sullen look was gone, but otherwise he was the same. He wasn’t any chunk of soft-soap by any means. But his grudge against the Army in general had disappeared, anyway. A little adulation will go a long, long way. “You gave me a square deal when you might have ruined me,” he went on without a smile, his light eyes staring belligerently into mine. “You gave me a chance. You’re a man, Lieutenant, I’ll say that for you. But as a soldier----” I let him talk. We were alone. Then I talked. “Same goes for you, Marston,” I informed him. “You saved my life, and you proved yourself a ---- good man. I admire you. But my personal opinion of you still goes. We’ll get along. I’ll give orders and you’ll take ’em, and this is the last occasion for conversation on anything except business that we’ll have.” “Yes, sir. Now about Number 14, I think she’s ready for test.” And that was that. Not only that, but it’s about every bit of it, I guess. You probably thought I was going to make myself out a hero. Now you see how dumb I was. All wrong. Funny how I keep muddling through, getting dumber and dumber, seems like, every year. I’d like to report that Marston and I fell into each other’s arms, and that he became my stanch friend and my man Friday and all that, but even in that this yarn is completely cockeyed, and isn’t like it ought to be at all. But that’s the way things work out in real life, I guess. Marston and I respect each other, and it’s nothing to his discredit that he doesn’t like me. He can find several people who would say that disliking me was only another proof of his remarkable powers. Occasionally, when the wind is in the east, I am a pessimist, and at those times--whisper it--I’m inclined to agree with those last-named folks. And that _is_ all of it. [Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the May 20, 1925 issue of Adventure magazine.]