“What was his name, for you haven’t even told me yours yet?” the nurse continued, as she gave the boy one of her smiles. “My name is Amos Turner, and his is Frank, but we’ve learned that when he enlisted he went as Frank Bradford.” The nurse started, and looked more sharply at the speaker. “Frank Bradford, you say?” she remarked, quickly. “Yes, and it’s plain to be seen from the way you act you’ve heard about him,” continued Amos, his interest growing by leaps and bounds. “I have even met him,” the Red Cross nurse announced. “Yes, more than that, it was my privilege to attend to his trifling hurts after he had returned from one of his most remarkable forays over many miles of hostile territory, doing an immense amount of damage to the German concentration camps, stores, railway stations, and Zeppelin hangars.” Amos colored with pride, for it must be remembered that it was a Turner, and his own brother, of whom this praise was being spoken. “We read accounts of that long flight he made that left a trail of alarm behind,” said Jack, “but there was no name mentioned. We only heard this very day through a British colonel that it was Frank Bradford.” Amos left his work for a minute. He was so excited he felt he must find out a little more about Frank from the Red Cross attendant. “How was he injured, Nurse?” he asked. “The wings of his plane were fairly riddled with shrapnel,” she explained, “but he had escaped all that in a miraculous way. In fact, his only injuries consisted of a few minor hurts on one of his arms, where he had scraped it in falling, after he got back into our lines.” “Was it his left arm?” asked Amos, quickly, and although the nurse may have possibly imagined this a foolish question, she answered it after a second’s thought. “His left arm--yes, that’s the one he had injured, I remember.” “My brother Frank had some tattoo work on his forearm,” explained Amos. “It was done by an old sailor he knew, and whose tales of worldwide adventure Frank was never tired of hearing. Can you remember, Nurse, whether the Frank Bradford you attended was marked with colored India inks--he had an eagle stamped there on his arm, a real screaming American eagle?” “Yes, it was an eagle, I remember now,” she affirmed. “He laughed when I told him it was a shame to allow himself to be mutilated that way, and said he had dreamed of being a sailor some day, and visiting every quarter of the globe. He also told me he had been around pretty much during the last few years.” Amos exchanged pleased glances with his cousin. “How strange it seems, Jack, that we should meet two persons in one day who have known Frank. The tattoo business tells the story good enough for me; but p’raps I’d better flash that picture out, and make dead sure.” When the Red Cross nurse had taken one look she nodded her head. “That’s certainly the Frank Bradford I met,” she told Amos, “though of course he looks older than in this picture.”