“Tomorrow. That is, if the new planes are all assembled by that time. They’re all on the floor in final assembly now. In the meantime, be a good guy, Langdon. Watch your step. And if you run across any Issoudun Nieuports, Spads or Morane Saulniers--well, snub the whole gang. What’s a bunch of _chasse_ pilots to a guy who can do his _chasse_ in a DH? Stick to your class, kid.” “Damn’ tootin’!” Langdon said, and went out to fly--and snub everything on wings. At 2 p.m, the next day, Langdon stood in the cockpit of the point DH of a grounded V of ten such planes. The nine who were to follow him were, to a man, of Langdon’s type, eager for anything, and anxious to get under way on this cross country hop. Cross country flying, at that time, rated high among the glories that went to make the romance of air. It was all adventure. Impatiently, the waiting nine goosed their motors and watched for the second when Langdon’s hand should fall. At 2:05, the leader slid into his seat, cracked his throttle, lifted his tail and took off. Two by two, in an ever mounting cloud of dust, the others took up the slack, filled in on Langdon’s rear and roared into flight. A turn of the field, and the shabby V formation went into the north. All ten did not get to Orly that day. Langdon watched three of the boys make safe landings with dead, or dying, motors, at Neuville, Etampes and Juvisy. “Guess that’s all right by me,” he mused, after he and the others had circled about the unfortunate each time. “Those boys either had motor trouble or they know chickens in these towns. If it’s motor trouble, it’s common and unavoidable; and if it’s chicken, it’s class and _pour d’honneur d’Air Service d’Ame-rique_. And either way, or both, I’m for ’em. Just three little jobs for Field Service; and Field Service must have something to do.” Through benefit of Field Service they were all at Orly next noon. “I’m going to hold you boys here for a few days,” the commanding officer said when they reported for return railroad transportation. “We expect to have a flock of ships going back to Romo’ for repair. And you’re the men to ferry them. Enjoy yourselves. “How’re you boys fixed for francs?” And the commanding officer, who was young himself once, smiled. * * * * * On the second day of their lay-over, orders for the Front came through for Langdon and two of his ferry mates. A Roman holiday was held, and the three borrowed scout planes to celebrate. Langdon flew his through the _Arche de Triomphe_ at high noon, wearing a high hat. He got away with it, and nothing much was said. “But,” the Orly flying officer reminded him, “you’d have rotted in Prison Camp No. 2 had things been messed up in the _Place de l’Arche de Triomphe.”_ “Ain’t it the truth, sir?” Langdon had agreed. “Nowadays failure doesn’t pay. Yes, sir, a guy’s crazy to slip up.”