Looking aloft, then, Don and Billy saw the victorious English plane going straight away at high speed toward the enemy’s lines and rising higher in air at every second. “Work cut out for us right ahead there,” Don remarked, as he settled back in his seat and began to speed up his motor. “We didn’t think that our first ‘_blessé_’ would be a Hun, did we?” “No. What’s a ‘_blessé_’?” “Why, I think that’s what the French call a wounded man. I hear them using it that way.” “I know a little French, but very little; I hadn’t heard that expression before. Many of these war-time French words bother me muchly. Look out; another shell-hole! Say, this must be a regular farm.” They saw the house standing in a clump of trees. The roadway led straight past it; with increased speed the ambulance flew by and in a little while came to the fallen airplane. The winged intruder, ‘winged’ also as a flying game bird is by the accurate fire of a sportsman, lay twisted, beyond repair, its wings, uprights and stays crushed and broken. Almost beneath the flattened wheels on the other side, crumpled up on the ground, lay the unconscious airman. He had either leaped at the last moment, landing almost where the airplane had, or he had been jarred from his seat by the impact. The boys were out of the car and beside him at once. Observing that he still breathed, they gently turned him over, trying to find where he was injured; then they saw a mass of clotted blood on his shoulder and discovered the bullet hole. First Aid was in order. Don ran to the ambulance and returned with a kit. Billy followed to unfasten a stretcher and a blanket. With utmost care, yet moving swiftly, though both lads were admittedly nervous over their first case, they got him on the stretcher, removed his upper garments, bathed the wound, plugged it with antiseptic gauze and then, covering him with the blanket, slid the stretcher into the car.