urst
into the room.

Larkin was buried behind a Paris edition of the _Tribune_, his legs
sprawled out into the middle of the floor where the heel of one boot
balanced precariously on the toe of the other.

"Oh, so-so," never bothering to look from behind his paper. Phlegmatic
old Buzz, McGee thought, what was the use of getting excited over an
instructor's job?

"Are they good?" McGee asked.

"Um. Dunno." Still reading.

"Mine are great!" McGee enthused. "Stiff, crusty young C.O., who needs a
couple of crashes--one fatal, maybe--but the rest of them are fine.
Great bunch of pilots."

"Yeah?" Still reading, but doubtful. "See any of 'em fly?"

"No-o," slowly, "of course not."

"Um-m. Well, wait until they begin sticking the noses of those new Spads
in the ground, and then tell me about 'em. They've been trained on
settin' hens. Wait until they mount a hawk."

McGee jerked a pillow from the bed and sent it crashing through the
concealing paper. "Old killjoy! If a man gave you a diamond you'd try it
on glass to see if it was real."

Larkin began rearranging his crumpled paper. "Well, why not? If it
wasn't real I wouldn't want it. And I wish you'd keep your pillows out
of my theatrical news. I was just reading about a play at the _Folies
Bergeres_, called 'Zig Zag'. They say it's a scream. By the way,
Shrimp, how'd you like to fly to Paris to-morrow morning and give it the
once over?"

"Fine, but--"

"But nothing! We can see it to-morrow night and be back the next day.
That fine bunch of pilots of yours can't get off the ground until the
Spads get here--and maybe not then."

"See here!" McGee challenged stoutly. "I'll bet you anything you like
that those boys--"

"Will all be aces in a month," Larkin completed, knowing the extent and
warmth of McGee's habitual enthusiasm. "All right, Shrimp, so be it. But
what has that to do with the show? Want to go?"

"Sure. But what about passes? I don't know just who we are answerable to
down here, in the matter of privileges and so forth. I've been sort of
lost for the last few days."

Larkin shoved his hand into his inside blouse pocket and brought forth
two folded papers which he displayed proudly.

"Here are the passes--all jake! Marked official business and authorizing
fuel and supplies, if needed. I'm a great little fixer. And about that
question of not knowing who you are answerable to, don't forget that
it's little Johnny Bull--capital J and B. You're lia