Wilkins has been having a tough time of it, and at last, in a three-hundred-foot wing-slip, has lost his comrades altogether, and is flying erratically here and there, too intent and too new at the game to watch behind him. Suddenly, two sparks of fire like tiny shooting stars whizz by him, a long rip appears in the fabric of his lower wing, and next moment, clear and unmistakable, he hears, "Tut, tut, tut, tut." He nearly twists his head off, and perceives with horror that five sinister forms, gray, sharp-snouted, and iron-crossed, are hemming him in, above, below, behind. His thoughts, which occupy possibly a second and a half, may be set down roughly as follows: "Five Boche single-seaters--too many--must beat it--how? Oh, yes--climb in zigzags and circles, heading for our lines." Leaving Wilkins for a moment, I must tell you a curious thing which shows that men have much in common with dogs. You know how, in his own yard, a fox-terrier will often put a mastiff to flight--and a fox-terrier, at that, who fears for his life when he ventures on the street? The same thing applies to flying--over the German lines you have a sort of a small, insignificant feeling, look at things pessimistically, and are apt to let your imagination run too freely. The minute you are over friendly country, that changes: your chest immediately expands several inches, you become self-assertive, rude, and over-confident. Thus Wilkins. In a wild series of zooms and half-spirals, to throw off his pursuers' aim, he reaches his own lines safely, and finds that all but one Albatross have given up the chase. One of them, possibly a beginner anxious for laurels, is not to be thrown off; so the American resolves to have a go at him. They are at twelve thousand feet. The German is behind and slightly below, maneuvering to come up under the Spad's tail. A second's thought, and Wilkins banks sharply to the left, circles, and dives before the Boche has realized that it is an air-attack. With the wind screaming through his struts, he sees the enemy's black-leather helmet fair on the cross hairs of the telescope, and presses the catch of the gun. A burst of half a dozen shots, a pull and a heave to avoid collision. As he rushes past the Albatross, he sees the pilot sink forward in his seat; the machine veers wildly, begins to dive, to spin. Good God--he's done it--what luck--poor devil! And that night at mess, Wilkins stands champagne for the crowd. Young H---- has had another wild time. He ran across a very fast German two-seater ten miles behind our lines, fought him till they were twenty miles inside the Boche lines, followed him down to his own aerodrome, circled at fifty feet in a perfect hail of bullets, killed the Hun pilot as he walked (or ran) from machine to hangars, riddled the hangars, rose up, and flew home.