André put the trumpet down shyly. Slim picked it up carefully and rubbed the mouthpiece with his sleeve. “Can you play a trumpet?” André asked curiously. “Waal ... I used to play some in the school band in Pecos, Texas. Matter of fact, I was pretty good. Shall I give ’er a try?” André jumped when a ringing peal of notes rose from the brass to the rafters. The notes slid down the scale, and Slim broke loudly into “Turkey in the Straw.” Weller’s bellow rose even above the music’s vibrations. “Stop that racket!” Slim guiltily took the horn from his lips. The sergeant shouted, “Captain’s on the phone to headquarters.” “Tell you what, André,” Slim whispered. “Suppose we go try this out somewhere?” For the next hour, in the dimly lit springhouse, André enjoyed himself more than he had for weeks. And when Slim said, “Time for bed now,” André had learned half of Slim’s pet song, which was something about Texas. Next morning, André found that a thick fog, almost a drizzle, hung over the treetops. The soft gray mist hid the harsh destruction of the landscape. André went out to find Raoul at work patching the Coty roof. “Just help me with this thatch, will you?” Raoul called. André gladly climbed up the old ladder with an armful of straw while Raoul chattered. But a moment later he stopped listening to Raoul’s talk. Somewhere in the fog, he had detected the uncertain throbbing of a plane’s engine. [Illustration: _André had learned half of Slim’s pet song_] He sat still to follow the sound. The plane was flying in wide circles, steadily coming in lower. In a drift of the mist, André caught a glimpse of the markings--a white star. “He’s in trouble, Raoul. That’s an American plane,” André cried. “How could he be in trouble?” Raoul objected. “He’s still in the sky, is he not?” But listening closely, he too, heard the engine sputter. “That engine needs repairs!” he declared disapprovingly. Hastily, André shouted, “DUCK!” Their heads went down as the plane’s wings, trailing wisps of fog, swept close overhead. André had just time to make out a high-wing monoplane with patches and holes in its fabric covering. The plane banked, sailed over a field behind the Coty house, and was set down expertly. André was already scrambling down the ladder. He pelted across the meadow with no thought of danger. Racing toward the plane, he thought only that the pilot might be hurt. Through the plexiglass enclosure of the little ship, André saw a blond young fellow, in an odd, peaked cap. At the sound of pounding footsteps, the pilot whirled, an automatic suddenly in his hand and pointed at André. CHAPTER THIRTEEN _The War from the Air_ André was so surprised that he stammered, in English, “D--don’t fire!” The flyer’s hand dropped. “_Parlez-vous_ English?” he faltered, frowning.