I must have been trampin' near an hour, with my chin down and my fists jammed into my overcoat pockets, when I catches a glimpse, out of the tail of my eye, of something yellow dodgin' behind a clump of cedars at one side of the road. First off I thought it might be a cow, as there was a farm-house a little ways ahead. Then it struck me no cow would move as quick as that, or have such a bright yellow hide. So I turns and makes straight for the cedars. It was a thick, bushy clump. I climbed the stone wall and walked all the way round. Nothin' in sight. Seemed as if I could see branches movin' in there, though, and hear a sound like heavy breathin'. Course, it might be a deer, or a fox. Then I remembered I had half a bag of peanuts somewhere about me. Maybe I could toll the thing out with 'em. I was just fishin' in my pockets when from the middle of the cedars comes this disgusted protest. "Oh, I say, old man," says a voice. "No shooting, please." And with that out steps a clean-cut, cheerful-faced young gent in a leather coat, goggled helmet, and spiral puttees. No wonder I stood starin'. Not that I hadn't seen plenty like him before, but I didn't know the woods was so full of 'em. "You were out looking for me, I suppose?" he goes on. "Depends on who you are," says I. "Oh, we might as well come down to cases," says he. "I'm the enemy." "You don't look it," says I, grinnin'. He shrugs his shoulders. "Fact, old man," says he. "I'm the one you were sent to watch for--Lieutenant Donald Allen, 26th Flying Corps Division, Squadron B." "Pleased to meet you," says I. "No doubt," says he. "Have a cigarette?" We lights up from the same match. "But say," he adds, "it was just a piece of tough luck, your catching me in this fix." "Oh, I ain't so sure," says I. "Of course," he says, "it won't go with the C. O. But really, now, what are you going to do when your observer insists that he's dying? I couldn't tell. Perhaps he was. Right in the middle of a perfect flight, too, the chump! Motor working sweet, air as smooth as silk, and no cross currents to speak of. But, with him howling about this awful pain in his tummy, what else could I do? Had to come down and---- Well, here we are. I'm behind the lines, I suppose, and you'll report my surrender." "Then what?" I asks. "Oh," says Allen, "as soon as I persuade this trolley-car aviator, Martin, that he isn't dead, I shall load him into the old bus and cart him back to Mineola." "Wha-a-t!" says I. "You--you're goin' back to Mineola--to-night?" "If Martin can forget his tummy," says he. "How I'll be guyed! Go to the foot of the eligible list too, and probably miss out on being sent over with my division. Oh, well!" I was beginning to dope out the mystery. More'n that, I had my fingers on the tail feathers of a hunch. "Why not leave Martin here?" I suggests. "Couldn't you show up in time?" "It wouldn't count," says the Lieutenant. "You must have an observer all the way."