Abruptly, the cross wires of his centre section raced up to him from a great distance and stopped just before his eyes. He wondered where they had been all this time. He stared past them into the light disk of his propeller, and again the rain lashed into his face and stung him. He caught at the kicking joy stick and held on to it with both hands--but one hand fell away from it and wouldn’t come back. With an effort, he pulled back his stick to climb up under the clouds again. Must be up under the clouds. Must wait and get more Huns. Funny things, Huns. Clumsy, stupid gray things you shot at and sent down. Go home soon, rest a bit and get some more. He laughed softly to himself. Joke. Funniest thing in the world. The centre section wires clouded up before his eyes and started to race away from him. Here! That’s bad! Can’t fly without centre section wires. He chuckled a bit over that. Absurd to think of flying without centre section wires! Come back here! You come back! Just as his eyes closed, he saw a streak of roadway flicker through the struts of his left wing. There were faces on it quite close to him; faces that were white and staring; faces with arms raised above them. Funny. He whipped back his joy stick with a convulsive jerk, and then his head crashed forward and he threw up his arm to keep his teeth from being bashed out against the compass. * * * * * It was very dark--dark except for a dancing blue light far away. He moved slightly. Something cool touched his forehead. “All right,” he muttered; “that’s all right now. You just follow me.” Someone whispered. He opened his eyes and stared into the darkness. “No,” he said quite plainly. “I mean it! Hoyt’s dead. I saw him go down.” He felt something sharp prick his arm. “You’ve got the new airdrome pinpointed, haven’t you?” he asked. A soft voice said, “Yes. Sh-h-h!” “No,” he said, “I can’t. Darlington’s alone now, and I’ve got to go back. They’re green, but they’re good boys.” He moved his legs to get up. “There’s a bottle of Dewar’s----” “No,” said the voice beside him. “Oh, yes,” he said quietly. “Really, this is imperative. I know I crashed.” A stealthy languor crept across his chest and flowed down toward his legs. He thought about it for a moment. “I ought to go,” he said pettishly. “But I’m so tired.” “Yes,” said the voice. “Go to sleep now.” “Right-o,” he said. “You call a tender and wake--me--half--an--hour.” He was quiet for a moment more and then he chuckled softly. “Tell ’em it’s poobah,” he said sharply. “All right,” said the voice. “It’s poobah.” His breathing became quiet and regular and footsteps tiptoed softly down the ward away from his bed. NIGHT CLUB BY KATHARINE BRUSH From _Harper’s_