Blindly he pressed his Bowden trigger and fired into the empty air, blindly he dived after Phelps-Barrington. Somewhere to the left he saw a plume of black smoke with something yellow twisting in the sunlight on its lower end. A blunt nose crossed his propeller--into his stream of bullets. He screamed and banked wildly, still firing. He saw Hoyt above him. He forgot the machine in front and reached for his Lewis to help Hoyt. He tried to wait--something about the outer ring of the rear sight--but his fingers got the better of him and he fired point-blank. As quickly as it had begun it ended. There was Hoyt circling back, and two other Camels to the left and below him--four of them. They closed in on Hoyt and he wondered where the two others were. He looked for them--probably chasing after the Huns. He could see dots to the southward--too far away to make out the markings. Hoyt had signalled the washout and they were headed back across the line. Funny those two others didn’t come. He wondered who they were. Probably Phelps-Barrington and MacClintock, hanging on to the fight until the last. They worked together that way. He had heard them talk in the mess about it. They’d be at it again to-night, and to-night he could join them for the first time. He’d been in a dog fight! Shot and been shot at! The spot of fear shrank to a pin point. The brown smudge of the airdrome slid over the horizon. He blipped his motor and glided in carefully. No use straining that top wing--no telling what other parts had been hit. No use taking chances. Hoyt was standing beside his machine with his glove off, staring at his finger nails. Phelps-Barrington was climbing out. Paterson taxied in between them. The man in the fourth machine just sat and stared over the rim of his cockpit. Phelps-Barrington walked slowly across to Hoyt and laid a hand on his shoulder. Hoyt shrugged and stuffed his bare hand into his coat pocket. Paterson sat with his goggles still on and his throat quite dry. The man in the fourth machine vaulted out suddenly, ripped off his helmet and goggles and hurled them to the ground. It was Trent. He climbed out of his own machine and walked over toward Hoyt. Phelps-Barrington, who had a wild word for all occasions--Phelps-Barrington, who led the night trips to Amiens--was silent. When Paterson came up he shrugged and scowled ferociously. “Is it you, Pat?” said Hoyt. “Thought it was Yardley.” “’Struth!” said Phelps-Barrington. “Let’s go and have a drink.” Paterson thrilled as the man slipped an arm through his. For one awful moment he had thought---- “Well,” Hoyt said, “those things will happen.” And he shrugged again. “I saw dots to the southward,” said Paterson. “Maybe they’ll be in later.” “No, little Rollo,” said Phelps-Barrington. “They won’t be in later or ever. I saw it with my own eyes--both in flames. I thought it was you, and until Trent landed, I thought he might be Mac. But I was wrong. Let’s shut up and have a drink!”