"What's the matter with 'em?" asked Blackie in mock alarm. "They're a' that Mister Carter bocht," said Tam untruthfully, "an' A' thocht ye'd wish to ha'e a few o' the laddie's seegairs." Nobody was deceived. They pooled the cigars for the mess and Tam went back to his quarters lighter of heart. He slept soundly and was wakened an hour before dawn by his batman. "'The weary roond, the deely task,'" quoted Tam, taking the steaming mug of tea from his servant's hands. "What likes the mornin', Horace?" "Fine, Sergeant--clear sky an' all the stars are out." "Fine for them," said Tam sarcastically, "they've nawthin' to do but be oot or in--A've no patience wi' the stars--puir silly bodies winkin' an' blinkin' an' doin' nae guid to mon or beastie--chuck me ma breeches an' let the warm watter rin in the bath." In the gray light of dawn the reliefs stood on the ground, waiting for the word "go." "A' wonder what ma frien' MacMuller is thinkin' the morn?" asked Tam; "wi' a wan face an' a haggaird een, he'll be takin' a moornfu' farewell o' the Croon Prince Ruppect. "'Ye're a brave lad,' says the Croon Prince, 'but maybe Tam's awa'.' "'Naw,' says MacMuller, shakin' his heid, 'A've a presentiment that Tam's no' awa'. He'll be oop-stairs waitin' to deal his feelon's-blow. Ech!' says Mister MacMuller, 'for why did I leave ma fine job at the gas-wairks to encoonter the perils an' advairsities of aerial reconnaissance?' he says. 'Well, I'll be gettin' alang, yeer Majesty or Highness--dawn't expect ma till ye see ma.' "He moonts his graind machine an' soon the intreepid baird-man is soorin' to the skies. He looks oop--what is that seenister for-rm lairking in the cloods? It is Tam the Comet!" "Up, you talkative devil," said Blackie pleasantly. Tam rode upward at an angle which sent so great a pressure of air against him that he ached in back and arm and legs to keep his balance. It was as though he were leaning back without support, with great weights piled on his chest. He saw nothing but the pale blue skies and the fleecy trail of high clouds, heard nothing but the numbing, maddening roar of his engines. He sang a little song to himself, for despite his discomfort he was happy enough. His eyes were for the engine, his ears for possible eccentricities of running. He was pushing a straight course and knew exactly where he was by a glance at his barometer. At six thousand feet he was behind the British lines at the Bois de Colbert, at seven thousand feet he should be over Nivelle-Ancre and should turn so that he reached his proper altitude at a point one mile behind the fire trenches and somewhere in the region of the Bois de Colbert again.