Landed at a strange aerodrome, filled Sally up, and flew home seventy-five miles by map. As usual, every one had begun the old story of how I was not a bad chap at bottom, and had many noble qualities safely hidden away--when I strolled into the bar. Slight sensation as usual, tinged with a suspicion of mild disappointment. Almost with regret, I have turned faithful old Slapping Sally over to a newly arrived young pilot, and taken a new machine, the last lingering echo of the dernier cri in fighting single-seaters. I had hoped for one for some time, and now the captain has allotted me a brand-new one, fresh from the factory. It is a formidable little monster, squat and broad-winged, armed to the teeth, with the power of two hundred and fifty wild horses bellowing out through its exhausts. With slight inward trepidations I took it up for a spin after lunch. The thing is terrific--it fairly hurtles its way up through the air, roaring and snorting and trembling with its enormous excess of power. Not half so pleasant as Sally, but a grimly practical little dragon of immense speed and potential destructiveness. At a couple of thousand feet over the field, I shut off the motor and dived to try it out. It fairly took my breath away--behind my goggles my eyes filled with tears; my body rose up in the safety-belt, refusing to keep pace with the machine's formidable speed. In a wink, I was close to the ground, straightened out, and rushing low over the blurred grass at a criminal gait--never made a faster landing. It is a tribute to man's war-time ingenuity, but, for pleasure, give me my old machine.