"These rotten puttees, Derek!" explained the victim. "I've had a proper puttee mornin'--have really. Got up twenty minutes before réveillé, too. Razor blunt as hoop-iron; hot water was stone cold; three fellows in the bath-room before me; an' some silly josser's pinched my socks. Not that that matters much though," he added, brightening up at the idea of having outwitted a practical joker. "I'm not wearing any. Then, to cap the whole caboodle, I lost a button off my tunic in the scrum at the mess-room door." Derek Daventry, one of a batch of newly-entered flight-cadets at Averleigh, was a tall, lightly-built fellow of eighteen and a few months. Dark-featured, his complexion tanned by constant exposure to sun and rain during his preliminary cadet training, supple of limb and brimful of mental and physical alertness, he was but one of many of a new type--a type evolved since the fateful 4th day of August, 1914--the aerial warriors of Britain. The second son of a naval officer, Derek had expressed a wish to enter the Royal Air Force, or, rather, the Royal Naval Air Force as it then was, from the moment when it became apparent that the schoolboy of to-day must be a member of one of the branches of His Majesty's Service to-morrow. Captain Daventry, R.N., D.S.O., and a dozen other letters after his name, was equally keen upon getting Derek into the navy by the post-entry of midshipmen process, thus making good an opportunity that had been denied the lad at an age when he was eligible for Osborne. "It's not only now," declared Captain Daventry. "One has to consider what is to be done after the war." "Time enough for that, Pater," rejoined Derek. "The end of the 'duration' seems a long way off yet." "Possibly," said his father. "On the other hand it may be much sooner than most people imagine. Of course I know that there are thousands of youngsters similarly situated to yourself, but the hard fact remains that the war must end sooner or later." "But the R.F.C. and the R.N.A.S. must carry on," persisted Derek. "Flying's come to stay, you know." "Quite so," admitted the naval man; "but unfortunately that doesn't apply to flying-men. The life of an airman, I am given to understand, is but a matter of three or four years, apart from casualties directly attributable to the war. The nervous temperament of the individual cannot withstand the strain that flying entails." "You're going by the experience of pioneers in aviation, Pater," replied his son. "After the war, flying will be as safe as motoring. When I'm your age I may be driving an aerial 'bus between London and New York. In any case I don't suppose the Air Board will turn a fellow down when his flying days are over. They'll be able to make use of him." "You are optimistic, Derek." "Yes, Pater," admitted the flying aspirant, "I am. It's a new thing, and there are endless possibilities. I only wish I were six months older. It's a long time to wait."