"They were," admitted "George" fervently, accepting without demur the name that for some unaccountable reason is indiscriminately bestowed upon members of the Senior Service. "We had our sticky times, of course. Then we groused like the rest of 'em. But that's a back number. Looking at it retrospectively, it wasn't a bad sort of stunt. And now there's the future." "There won't be one for you on this old planet if you aren't more careful," interrupted Villiers, as he gripped his chum by the arm and hiked him on to the pavement just in time to escape being run down by a motor-cyclist. "Bless my soul! It's Alec Claverhouse; and on a brand-new 1919 jigger, too." The recognition was mutual, for the motor-cyclist slowed down and came to a standstill with one foot on the kerb within twenty yards of the spot where he had all but collided with Bobby Beverley. From what could be seen of him Alec Claverhouse appeared to be a tall, burly fellow. Tall he certainly was, but the burliness was largely deceptive, since he was wearing thick clothing and heavy motor mackintosh overalls. His forehead was concealed by a golf-cap pulled well down, while resting upon the peak were a pair of goggles that were evidently considered by their owner to be necessary adjuncts to the "doggy" appearance of a "speed merchant". Claverhouse was an ex-lieutenant of the Royal Air Force--or Flying-Officer according to the revised and much criticized style of rank. He had been demobilized for more than five months, and after a long and wearisome search for a job had taken up a not too lucrative post at a motor-engineering works, part of his duty being to risk his neck and those of others of His Majesty's lieges by testing cars and motor-cycles on the King's highway. Up to the present he had been fairly fortunate in having his licence endorsed but twice, although it was a wonder that the fatal third endorsement had not been recorded. Like a good many other air-pilots Claverhouse, used to travelling at 120 miles an hour, found that a paltry twenty over the ground was a mere crawl. "Cheerio, Beverley, old bird!" he exclaimed boisterously. "Hardly expected to run up against you. Still in it, I see. And, Villiers, you dear old thing! so they've chucked you out." "Both of us," corrected Beverley. "We were discussing the prospects of hacking our way to fame and prosperity when you nearly settled the problem for us." "Always ready to be of assistance," rejoined Claverhouse. "By the by, seen any of the old Abermurchan crowd lately?" "Not since last July," replied Beverley. "Villiers and I came south together when the M.L. base packed up. The Air Station was due to close down almost immediately, I remember. What are you doing here?" "Trying to find my feet," was the reply. "In other words, pottering about in a glorified garage waiting for a snip. I'm thinking of going abroad." "That's about as far as we've got," said Villiers.