Next morning, one of his new comrades calls for Wilkins, presents him to the captain, who proves very chic and shows him his machine, which has just been brought out from the dépôt. The armorer is engaged in fitting a Vickers gun on it, so Wilkins spends the rest of the day at the hangar, sighting the gun, adjusting his belt, installing altimeter, tachometer, and clock. An hour before sundown all is ready; so the American climbs into his seat for a spin, fully aware that many appraising eyes will watch his maiden performance. Off she goes with a roar, skimming low, over the field, until her full speed is attained, when the pilot pulls her up in a beautiful "zoom," banking at the same time to make her climb in a spiral. Up and up and up, her motor snarling almost musically--and suddenly she stops, quivers, and plunges downward, spinning. A hundred yards off the ground she straightens out magically, banks stiffly to the left, skims the hangars, and disappears. The mechanicians watching, hands on hips, below, nod to one another in the French way. "Il marche pas mal, celui-là," they say--high praise from them. Wilkins, meanwhile, has flown down the river, to where a target is anchored in a broad shallow. Over it he tilts up and dives until the cross hairs in his telescopic sight center on the mark. "Tut-tut-tut," says the Vickers, and white dashes of foam spring out close to the canvas. He nods to himself as he turns back toward the aerodrome. At dinner there is much talk, as the weather has been good. A---- and L---- had a stiff fight with a two-place Hun, who escaped miraculously, leaving their machines riddled with holes. M---- had a landing cable cut by a bullet; J---- had a panne, and was forced to land uncomfortably close to the lines. At eight o'clock an orderly comes in with the next day's schedule: "Wilkins: protection patrol at 8 A.M." The French have not the English objection to "talking shop," and over the coffee the conversation turns to the difficulties of bringing down Huns and getting them officially counted--"homologue" the French call it. The great airmen, of course,--men like Bishop, Ball, Nungesser, and Guynemer,--get their thirty, forty, or fifty Boches; but nevertheless it is a very considerable feat to get even one, and growing harder every day. Nearly all the German hack-work--photography, reglage of artillery, observation, and so forth--is now done by their new two-seaters, very fast and handy machines and formidable to attack, as they carry four machine-guns and can shoot in almost any direction. Most of the fighting must be done in their lines; and far above, their squadrons of Albatross single-seaters watch ceaselessly for a chance to pounce unseen. Add to this the fact that, to get an official count, the falling Hun must be checked by two independent observers, such as observation-balloon men, and you can see that it is no easy trick.