"Claude," exclaimed my love, when we were alone, "I feel so very worried over you! I know how keen you are to act your part in this war, and to put your theory to the test. But is it really wise? Remember that you are going to risk your life. The creation of that electric wave, when in the air, may re-act upon your own engines and seize them--or it may create a spark across your own petrol-tank. In that case you would be blown up in mid-air!" "Ah! That contingency I've already provided for, darling," I assured her. "Have you not seen that my new petrol-tank is a wooden barrel held by wooden bands, so that there is no metal over which to spark?" "I know. But electricity is such a mysterious force, one never knows what it will do, or how it will take effect." "You are going a little wide of the mark, Roseye," I laughed. "We know pretty well the limitations of electricity--or rather we three know as much--and perhaps a little more, than the enemy does. My discovery is quite simple, after all. I have found out the means by which to create and to direct a flash of intense electrical current, a kind of false lightning. And that current, sparking over the interstices between the aluminium lattice-work and envelope of a Zeppelin, must certainly ignite the inflammable gas with which the ballonets are filled and which is so constantly escaping." "Yes, I know," was her answer, as she allowed me to place my arm tenderly about her slim waist. Then she seemed unduly thoughtful and apprehensive. "Well?" I asked. "Why are you worrying, darling? I am striving to do my very best for my country. I am going to fight--or attempt to fight-- just as valiantly as though I were dressed in khaki, and wore the winged badge of the pilot of the Royal Flying Corps. Indeed, my chance is better. I have no Flight-Commander to look to for orders. I am simply a handy man of the air who has, I trust, thought out a feasible plan." "Your plan is most excellent, Claude," she admitted. "But what I fear is the great personal risk and peril to yourself." "There's none," I laughed. "You, my dear, have no fear when you are flying--even at high altitudes. Neither have I. Both of us are used to being up, and our machines are part of ourselves. I never think of danger; neither do you, Roseye. So don't let us discuss it further," I urged. Then, in order to turn our conversation into a different channel, while I still held her hand as she sat upon that old black horsehair couch with me at her side, I said: "I've just been reading what is termed a hot-aircraft poem in the _Aeroplane_. I wonder if I recollect the concluding lines. They run something like this:--" The Scout makes no question of Ays or Noes, But right or left, as banks the Pilot, goes And he who dropped One down into the Field-- He knows about it all--he knows, he knows!