The floor of the cockpit suddenly altered its angle. It had tilted upwards. Now it tilted all to one side. Sick and dizzy, but secure, the boy hung in his straps as she lay over, and saw on his left hand a wing of the Bird rising and blotting out the heavens, while on his right hand the earth reared up so horribly that Bawne could only shut his eyes tight and hold on to the arms-straps of his seat, and gasp out a little prayer. Then the cockpit floor became more level, and the wind buffeted less. The roar of the tractor and the twanging drone of the wires made one’s bones hum and tingle to the very ends of one’s teeth and finger-tips. But nothing had happened. Perhaps nothing would! He drew a great breath of relief, and his heart left off bumping. His mouth was cold inside and his tongue felt dry and stiff. Only Our Lord and Our Lady and his guardian Angel had seen him funky, and for this Bawne was grateful. They understood, and—people—would not. He guessed it about a quarter to six o’clock. By the genial warmth on one cheek and shoulder, and the way his shadow stretched over the pale grained ash-wood that lined the cock-pit, he knew the west must be upon the left. He raised himself, craning his neck, and through the low wind screen behind him, against the background of a sky all flaming and boiling with molten gold and liquid amber, he saw the wide square shoulders and tall helmeted head of von Herrnung, the hard eyes staring unflinchingly through their round glass goggles, the mouth set in a straight inflexible line under the tight red roll of the moustache. The red-moustached mouth opened, and von Herrnung shouted something. Nothing reached the boy but a sort of muffled roar. He shook his head vigorously, and then—one does not wear the Signaller’s Badge for nothing!—released a stiff little gloved hand from its grip on the arm-rest, and rapped out with his clenched right fist on the edge of the fuselage: "_I—can’t—hear!_" The Code was understood. The helmeted head, some four feet distant, nodded. One of von Herrnung’s gauntleted hands freed itself from the steering-bar. Its knuckles drubbed out the question: "Have you the brown satchel?" Bawne had quite forgotten the brown satchel. He screwed back his head and looked down and there it was, lying on the numb knees of him, buckled to him by the tough strap of pigskin that held him in his seat. He nodded assent, and signalled: "All right!" "Good!" von Herrnung signalled back through the hurly-burly of the Bird’s transit. Bawne mustered courage to knock out: "Where are we? When shall we go down?" Von Herrnung’s right hand lifted itself, and described a sweeping half-circle. The brusque gesture answered Bawne’s first question, bidding him look and see.