"Aloon i' the vast an' silent spaces of the vaulted heavens," said Tam in his sing-song tones which invariably accompanied his narratives, "the Young Avenger of the Cloods, Tam the Scoot, focht his ficht. Attacked by owerwhelmin' foorces, shot at afore an' behint, the noble laddie didna lose his nairve. Mutterin' a brief--a verra brief--prayer that the Hoons would be strafed, he climbt an' climbt till he could 'a' strook a match on the moon. After him wi' set lips an' flashin' een came the bluidy-minded ravagers of Belgium, Serbia an'--A'm afreed--Roomania. Theer bullets whistled aboot his lugs but, "His eyes were bricht, His hairt were licht, For Tam the Scoot was fu' o' ficht-- "That's a wee poem A' made oop oot o' ma ain heid, Captain, at a height of twenty-three thoosand feet. A'm thinkin' it's the highest poem in the wairld." "And you're not far wrong--well, what happened?" "A' got hame," said Tam grimly, "an' ain o' yon Hoons did no' get hame. Mon! It took him an awfu' long time to fa'!" He went off to his breakfast and later, when Blackie came in search for him, he found him lying on his bed smoking a long black cigar, his eyes glued to the pages of "Texas Tom, or the Road Agent's Revenge." "I forgot to tell you, Tam," said Captain Blackie, "that von Zeidlitz is down." "Doon?" said Tam, "'Fritz Fokker' doon? Puir laddie! He were a gay fichter--who straffit him?" "You did--he was the man you shot down yesterday." Tam's eyes were bright with excitement. "Ye're fulin' me noo?" he asked eagerly. "It wisna me that straffit him? Puir auld Freetz! It were a bonnie an' a carefu' shot that got him. He wis above me, d'ye ken? 'Ah naw!' says I. 'Ye'll no try that tailbitin' trick on Tam,' says I; 'naw, Freetz--!' An' I maneuvered to miss him. I put a drum into him at close range an' the puir feller side-slippit an' nose-dived. Noo was it Freetz, then? Weel, weel!" "We want you to take a wreath over--he'll be buried at Ludezeel." "With the verra greatest pleasure," said Tam heartily, "and if ye'll no mind, Captain, A'd like to compose a wee vairse to pit in the box." For two hours Tam struggled heroically with his composition. At the end of that time he produced with awkward and unusual diffidence a poem written in his sprawling hand and addressed: Dedication to Mr. von Sidlits By Tam of the Scoots "I'll read you the poem, Captain Blackie, sir-r," said Tam nervously, and after much coughing he read: "A graund an' nooble clood Was the flyin' hero's shrood Who dies at half-past seven And he verra well desairves The place that God resairves For the men who die in Heaven. "A've signed it, 'Kind regards an' deepest sympathy wi' a' his loved ains,'" said Tam. "A' didna say A' killit him--it would no be delicate."