The cry, taken up by a score of youthful voices, echoed and re-echoed along the concrete-paved corridors of the Averleigh T.D.S.--such being the official designation of the Training and Disciplinary School--one of those mushroom-growth establishments that bid fair to blossom into permanent instruction schools under the aegis of the juvenile but virile Royal Air Force. Ensued a wild scramble. The morning mail had arrived but five minutes before the momentous summons. Some of the cadets had seized upon their share of letters, and had retired, like puppies with dainty tit-bits, to the more secluded parts of the building, in which little privacy is obtainable. Others, with scant regard for their surroundings, were perusing their communications when the order that meant the commencement of another day's work brought them back to earth once more. "Where's my cap?--Who's pinched my stick?--George, old son, what did you do with those gloves of mine you had last night?--Now, then, my brave, bold Blue Hungarian bandsman, get a move on." The wearer of the latest pattern of the R.A.F. blue uniform raised his hands deprecatingly. One of a few similarly attired amid a swarm of khaki-clad flight-cadets, he was beginning to feel sorry for himself for having been up-to-date, and vindictive towards the Powers that Be who had given instructions for him to appear thus attired. "Chuck it!" he exclaimed. "Not my fault, really. If this is the R.A.F. idea of a sensible and serviceable get-up, I'm sorry for the R.A.F." "It'll come in handy when you sign on as a cinema chucker-out _après la guerre,_ George," chimed in another, as he deftly adjusted his cap and made sure that his brightly-gilded buttons were fulfilling those important functions ordained by the Air Ministry Regulations and Service Outfitters. He shot a rapid glance through the window, for the long corridor was now ejecting the crowd of cadets in a continuous stream of khaki, mingled with blue. "Buck up, George!" continued the last speaker, addressing a slightly-built youth who, red in the face, was bending over his up-raised right knee. "What's wrong now?" The individual addressed as George--and in the R.A.F. it is a safe thing to address a man as George in default of giving him his correct name--explained hurriedly and vehemently, directing his remarks with the utmost impartiality both to his would-be benefactor and to a refractory roll of cloth that showed a decided tendency to refuse to coil neatly round his leg.