“You couldn’t have followed me through that fog, Langdon,” he stated. “Because you can’t handle a ship in the sky. Is that any reason that I should mess my chance up? My Nieuport was running low in gas, too. I wasn’t sure of finding the outfit. And I dropped on that Boche because he was out-maneuvering you. I sat up in the sky and watched you. You never even saw me there!” Tex stared at the other lieutenant. Then he laughed nastily. “_You_ may get in a sky jam some time,” he said slowly. “You might even crack up a ship one of these days. And if I’m around--” Lieutenant Adams swore sharply. His face twisted. “You won’t be!” he snapped. “I’ll be shooting lead around the front when you’re--” He broke off, controlling himself. Tex Langdon smiled at him, his eyes narrowed. When he spoke his voice was very low and steady. “When I’m back where I came from, eh, Lieutenant? Maybe you’re right, Adams. But I’m not forgetting that you winged out on me, into the grey stuff. The captain didn’t ask me to verify that fact.” The veteran smiled grimly. “If I ever get in a sky jam, Langdon,” he said slowly, “I won’t expect any help from you. If you did try to help you’d probably crash me in the air. It’s about the only thing you haven’t done since you’ve been up.” Lieutenant Tex Langdon nodded. “Just about,” he agreed in a peculiar tone. “Except--I haven’t quit a man in ground fog!” The two replacement ships didn’t come in that afternoon. Nor the next afternoon. The fog continued to hang low and thick. Most of the pilots sat on the ground, worked on their ships, lined up guns. One morning of the third day the fog lifted a bit and the two replacement Nieuports were ferried in from Colombey. Lieutenant Schafer drew one and Tex Langdon drew the other. Tex worked over his Browning, got the ship off for an hour’s hop back of the lines before dark. She handled well, and in a couple of bursts at the ground target south of the Sixteenth’s field he didn’t do so bad. But he almost cracked up setting her down, making a fast landing. He taxied her into one of the camouflaged hangars, gave the ground-crew sergeant his o. k., and moved toward his coop in the barracks. An orderly was waiting for him; he was wanted at the C. O.’s office. He washed up, hurried over. Captain Jones frowned up at him. “Lieutenant Connors reports sick. Looks like a touch of flu. We’re short pilots, and Brigade is howling for defense planes. Enemy ships are flooding the Sector air. Is your new ship all right?” “Yes, sir,” Tex replied quietly. “Take her over until dark,” the C. O. ordered. “Lieutenants Harrington and Adams are out. Head for Hill G.8. Some Fokkers are raising the devil up that way. The French may get some ships across, and you might help some in a dog fight. Pull back here before dark. That’s all. Get me a report as soon as you get in.”