MOONLIGHT AND MOONSHINE by Thomson Burtis Author of “Texas Steerers,” “Release,” etc. GEORGE ARLINGTON HEMINGWOOD, OF THE AIR SERVICE, DIDN’T CARE WHAT THOSE KENTUCKY MOUNTAINEERS DID SO LONG AS THEY DIDN’T DO IT TO HIM. BUT WHEN A BULLET IN THE ENGINE OF HIS SOARING PLANE MADE HIM TRY TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO LAND ON TREE-TOPS AND LIVE, HE CONCLUDED THAT IT WAS TIME TO START SOMETHING Lieutenant George Arlington Hemingwood, of the Hemingwoods of Boston, was wrestling with a problem. Having applied soothing lotions to his freshly shaved and smarting face, and put the last touches to the part in his black hair, he continued to stare into the small mirror and wonder whether he ought to do it or not. He leaned over until his deeply tanned face was within an inch of the glass and inspected in detail the small, close-cropped black mustache which adorned his upper lip. It was a fairly luxuriant mustache, as those hirsute adornments go, but it did not quite satisfy his critical eye. Was it worthwhile to shave it off in the hope that two hairs would sprout where but one had grown before? Let it go as it was, he decided. Having decided this burning question, Hemingwood proceeded leisurely to don his tan serge shirt. He had no further interest in his face, although that, like its principal ornament, was a good enough specimen of its kind. A bit round, perhaps, and certainly very brown, but lighted amazingly by a pair of sparkling brown eyes and a wide, good-humored mouth which was usually curved in either a smile or a grin. If not, it conveyed the impression that it would stretch into one or the other at the slightest provocation. It was the face of a contented and cheery person, both of which George Arlington Hemingwood was. Being a first lieutenant in the Air Service satisfied him completely and he had little more to ask from fate. The future was pleasant to his mind’s eye. He wasted no thought whatever on his prospects. He could not have told you where he stood on the promotion list, because he did not care particularly whether he ever became a captain or not. Life, as it was and as he lived it, was a good invention of the Lord’s to his mind. The two rooms he occupied, with walls of beaverboard and a leak in the ceiling, were comfortable enough to live in and far more appealing than the shadowed confines of the Hemingwood residence on Beacon Hill, and, although his father’s bank was a fine big bank and his father’s son could lead an enviable commercial existence therein, the cockpit of a De Haviland airplane was infinitely more desirable.