His plane was seen to hover for a moment first on one wing and then the other, as it seemed to come to a dead halt, and then, just as a little tongue of flame shot outward there was a loud explosion, the Albatross turned its nose downward and crashed to earth. The American machine circled for a moment, as though the pilot were seeking his exact bearings, and then began a long, slow, gliding descent. From all directions men by the score hurried over to where the machine would land, learn the identity and get a glimpse of the pilot who had furnished the entertainment. As he came to the ground, the plane halted and the first of them gathered around, there was a gasp of astonishment and sympathy, the pilot lay back in his seat as white as a ghost, his left arm hung limp at his side, blood trickled from a wound in his shoulder, and obviously he would have fainted and fallen had the battle lasted a few moments longer. “A stretcher!” cried a lieutenant of the Aviation Corps, who had run to the spot to congratulate his colleague. A stretcher was brought, and an ambulance came hurrying up. The man was unconscious when he was lifted in. “Serious, but not fatal,” was the abrupt diagnosis of a surgeon after a cursory examination. “Mostly weakness from loss of blood.” “But why did he stay up after being hit?” asked one man, more of himself than anyone else. “The Hun would have been glad to get away at any time,” put in another. The lieutenant who had called for the stretcher turned in no unfriendly way toward them. “He didn’t come down until he’d gotten his objective,” he said, “because of the stuff that he’s got in him—the same stuff that you fellows have got, too. You’ll be doing the same and just as good things on land, once you get started—and that won’t be very long now.” He added the last few words in more of an undertone, as though speaking to himself, but everyone caught the significance of them. “I believe it’s a good sign,” said Ollie Ogden, as the three friends were slushing over the still slippery return journey, although the long rain had ceased early that morning. “Believe what’s a good sign?” demanded Harper, impatient that Ollie should be so indirect. “The way that pilot stayed up and won his fight.” “Well, how’s that a sign? A sign of what?” Tom broke in. “Why,” explained Ollie, “I believe it’s a sort of a forecast of this new drive we’re going into, and for that matter the whole war. Some of us may and will get hurt, but we’re going to stick at it until we win, and we’re going to make the quickest possible job of it.” “Bravo!” exclaimed Tom, “Only in our case we’re not going to invite the enemy over our lines to do it. We’re going to carry the fight to him.” “You’re right,” added Harper, “and this looks as if it’s not many hours off.” He pointed to a long string of motor trucks bearing pioneers, engineers, snipers, wire-cutters—the forerunners of a battle in which preliminary difficulties must be overcome.