He knew that the Boche in his Taube had gone down considerably to the northeastward. And the Taube was on fire. No doubt about that. This was not a hostile machine, was it? Bangs did not feel that it was. He had heard along that front tales of a big concrete oval, once erected in the small Duchy of Luxemburg, close to the town of Arion, which town was near a large area of forest. It had been constructed about the era when a revival of old-time Olympic games had roused more or less interest in a modern worldwide participation in the same, as a sort of antique revival of ancient times. Several celebrations had come off, notably at Athens, at Paris, and elsewhere. Then the interest died out but this concrete oval had remained. After certain minor uses it had fallen into neglect. When war came that region became more or less ravaged, though somewhat off the track of the main struggles. And here was Buck hovering over this modern relic of an old-time futility, while below him was a mysterious plane trying to rise but apparently not succeeding. With this train of thought, Bangs got out his remaining signal flares and flashed one of the code signals most in use among the Allied aviators along this front. His pulses leaped when it was answered. Before Buck could do anything more, there came the sounds of a much nearer explosion somewhat off to the south, fairly jarring the earth with its impact. The plane below was now motionless. All at once a series of flashes came upward that Buck instantly understood as saying: "You must be of our side. If not, I'll have to take a chance. We are out of petrol: tank 'prang a leak. Can you help us out?" "You bet!" flashed back Bangs. "Got enough so that we can both get home again. Who are you?" This last query was instantly replied to from below by the private sign denoting that the parties below were of such and such squad or escadrille quartered at Aerodrome No. -. Buck drew a long breath, then he flashed forth his own number and began to descend. Nothing more happened until Buck brought his nimble Nieuport to a smooth standstill a few yards distant from a big biplane that Bangs at once recognized as Blaine's. "Well, well!" he exclaimed, dismounting and hurrying across the intervening space. "Isn't this luck - why - why what's the matter, Lafe? Sick?" But Blaine was only sick at heart. Already be had taken Stanley out of the observer's manhole, had laid the lad down, pillowing his head on a blanket, and was bending low, massaging Stanley's immobile limbs. Stanley's face looked deathlike under the flare of Blaine's flashlight. In an instant Buck understood. Stanley had been wounded, perhaps mortally, during the course of the night raid. Blaine, being unable to keep on his course longer owing to the gradual draining of petrol from the tank as the engines consumed the heat, had managed to descend to this retired place.