“The good old Leader of Squadron 73 over in France used to say: ‘Boys, you may have as many good points as you like, but two are absolutely necessary: courage that will stick, and an unfailing sense of humor. Nothing keeps up a fellow’s sense of humor better than a song.’ “Guess we’ll have to toddle along.” The Commander moved away. “Good to have met you, Barnes. If you can really fly, and I must say you do look the part, we’ll sign you up just any time you say.” At that he and the Lark vanished through the swinging doors. As Dave stared after them, awed respect was registered in his eyes. “So he was with Squadron 73!” he murmured. “Sure was.” Applegate beamed. “In France, all the way, right through the Blitzkrieg. That was the fightingest aggregation that ever flew in formation. They shot down more than a hundred planes for sure, and sent a likely hundred more limping home.” “How many came back to tell the story?” Dave was visibly impressed. “Nearly all,” was the reply. “I think they lost two commissioned and two non-commissioned officers. That was all.” “Sayee!” Dave murmured. “Air fighting is almost as safe as football!” “Absolutely,” his companion agreed. “Providing you know your stuff and have been born in the air.” “And that,” Dave thought, as he started for home some little time later, “is how I keep out of this man’s war. I’d better look up the plane schedule to Lisbon tomorrow.” But would he? _Chapter_ XI Cobbler or Spy? Dave walked toward Ramsey Farm in a thoughtful mood. Always for him, in the past, the ability to do a thing well had meant a clear track ahead. “But now,” he whispered, stopping stock still in the road to think. With the Young Lord’s help he had accomplished something that in this war-shattered land seemed rather more than well worth doing. There was nothing startling about the part he had played. Back in America his uncle, a World War ace, had put him through his paces, that was all. In a staunch old two-seater they had banked, rolled, power dived and looped the loop until he really knew how. What fun it had been! He had not thought of it as preparation for anything. Yet today, when the test came, he was prepared. Yes, the ability to do a thing had always meant “Go ahead.” “I could do it all again,” he assured himself as he thought of the day’s adventure. For a moment more he stood there looking at the blue sky, white clouds, and gay autumn leaves that were England at her best. “This is England,” he whispered, “Bit by bit it is being destroyed by one man’s hate and lust for power.” “Damn!” he swore softly. Then he hurried on. He decided to take the long way home, the road that ran through Warmington. “Shoemakers,” he thought, “always have your work finished the second time, never the first. My boots will be done.” “Here you are, sir,” said old John, handing out a neat package and taking the pay. “I ’opes you find them satisfactory, sir.”