The Navy-that-Floats possesses for its “pleasant help” an awesome volume of some 946 pages (not counting Addenda), entitled _The King’s Regulations and Admiralty Instructions_. Yet in all its pages there is not one clause which can compare with this brave sentence: for this is youth speaking to youth, for the guidance and comfort of his soul. Now in one of the squadrons of the Navy-that-Flies there are three flight leaders, and the sum total of their ages is fifty-nine. The youngest, whatever his birth certificate may testify, looks something under sixteen. Of him it is related that in his early youth, having brought down a hostile machine within the British lines and captured the two occupants (with Iron Crosses complete), he approached a certain general, demanding transport for his prisoners--covering them the while with an automatic pistol. “Transport?” said the general. “Where d’you want to take them?” “To my squadron headquarters,” was the grave reply. “I’d like to keep ’em for a bit. I’d like the others to see ’em.” “Damn it,” replied the General, “they ain’t canaries. Certainly not. Send ’em to the cages with the rest of the prisoners.” The victor flew sorrowfully homewards, and on arrival gave it as his opinion that professional jealousy was the ruination of the Junior Service.... They are not given to talking over-much of their achievements in the hearing of a stranger within their gates. The second youngest of the trio admitted, contemplating his cow-hide boots, to have “done-in” twelve hostile machines in single combat--and lapsed into agonised silence. “Of course,” said the third, coming to the rescue of a comrade in palpable distress, “N., the star Frenchman, is the fellow to talk if you want to hear some good yarns.” The speaker had the grave, sweet face of a mediæval knight, and the owner of the cow-hide boots shot him a swift glance of gratitude. “_He’s_ done-in fifty Huns,” he confirmed, nodding. It was on the following day, as it happened, that Fate introduced the Frenchman to the Stranger within the Gates of the Navy-that-Flies. The flying man landed on one of the aerodromes of the Navy-that-Flies, a florid-faced young man, chubby and blue-eyed. The squadron strolled out to greet him with ready hospitality and hero-worship. “_Bon jour_, N.,” said the squadron commander. “How goes it?” The famous French fighting pilot swung himself out of his machine and pulled off his gauntlet. He wore, in addition to the regulation flying helmet, a bright-blue muffler wound with many turns round the lower part of his face, and a soiled aquascutum with a row of medal-ribbons reaching half-way across his breast. The wind fluttered its skirts, disclosing a pair of tight red breeches above top-boots of a light yellow. As an additional protection against the cold his feet were encased in fur moccasins. He greeted the Navy-that-Flies in rapid French and threw their ranks into some disorder.