It blunted the keen edge of appetite, robbed the flesh of its earthly pleasures, weakened the powers of resistance against disease, and painted the world a dull monotone of gray. Its victims clogged the wheels of industry and progress, hampered politics, handicapped art, fostered wars which were fought by others, and scoffed at romance. The Dragon, the Hydra and the Chimæra were merely harmless and playful little creatures compared with this insidious Monster of Old Age. Little wonder that our hearts were light and gay as we thought of the subtle weapons of attack which we carried in those innocent-looking thermos flasks. For over an hour we went hustling and humming through the blue heavens in pursuit of our prey; then we saw Windhuk, the City of the Aged, lying beneath us like a cluster of toy huts on a green and brown carpet. The engines suddenly ceased their roar, the wind whistled through the struts, the tree-clad earth tilted and spun round in an ascending spiral, antlike inhabitants hurried hither and thither in curiosity and alarm, and down we dropped in an ecstasy of aerial exuberance. Gran'pa was the first to alight. With a youthful spring, he leapt to the ground and ran over to the other 'plane to help out Molly. It was a lesson in politeness--an art which few people are able to practice in moments of intense excitement. I watched the scene with humility and shame, admitting to myself that I had been far too engrossed in my own speculations to think of others, and was about to compliment Gran'pa on his courtesy when my attention was suddenly diverted elsewhere. A loud cry on our right had heralded the sudden appearance of between fifty and sixty strange looking men, clad in vests and "shorts." With their fists clenched on each side of their chests, they came quietly trotting round a cluster of trees at the one end of the open space to which we had just descended. "What on earth is it?" Newland asked. "The finish of a cross-country race, or a deputation from the local mayor?" "Heaven knows!" I answered. "They must be having some sort of sports here." I was about to hazard another explanation for this astounding apparition when the truth burst upon me. I recognized first one and then another face in the crowd. That tall, thin man was Major Atkinson, and that stumpy little fellow was P. J. Cholmondeley, the world's oldest railway director. "Why, they're the boys!" I exclaimed, hysterically. "What boys?" queried Newland. "The Club! . . . The Rejuvenation Club, man! . . ." I cried, gazing anxiously at Gran'pa, round whom they were clustering, like a pack of hungry hounds. "_Three cheers!_" shouted a thin, reedy voice out of the half-clad mass of surging humanity. "_Hip-hip-hurrah!_" came the unanimous reply. "_Hurrah! . . . Hurrah! . . ._"