og
like an angry hornet.

He soon found that this was of no avail and at last, seeking something
that might be of value, he climbed out of the earth-blanketing fog into
the clear sunlight, encountering clear blue sky at some fifteen hundred
feet.

Below him, now, was a billowing sea of fog banks, tinted by the sun
which had climbed about it. A short distance ahead he sighted an enemy
tri-plane Fokker, but before he could give chase it had dived into the
fog.

Over to the right, in what he thought must be the general direction of
Montfaucon, he saw a single seater Nieuport cruising around.

He headed for it, and soon identified it as Yancey's plane. The wild
Texan was sitting above the fog, patiently waiting (as a cat waits for a
mouse) for some observation sausage to come nosing out of the fog. Tex
knew that the sun would eventually burn up the fog. The enemy, also
knowing this, would be sending up their sausages so as to have them in
position when the fog passed. Certainly the enemy had reason to see all
that could be seen, for by this time they must be hard pressed indeed.

Directly in McGee's path, about half way between his plane and Yancey's,
a black, formless bulk loomed out of the fog. A sausage!

McGee drove hard for it, and noted that he was in a race with Yancey,
whose quick eye had sighted it.

The black bag was hardly out of the fog bank when tracers from McGee's
and Yancey's guns began streaming into it. It exploded with amazing
suddenness, the flaming cloth sinking back into enveloping billows of
fog.

Yancey banked sharply, flew alongside McGee and shook his fist as though
to say--"Go and find a rat hole of your own. This is my territory."

McGee chuckled. The Texan, instead of trying to catch some view of the
far flung battle lines, was out to increase his score.

McGee dived back down into the fog, hoping that it might be lifting.
Down below, he knew, a mighty struggle was on. Lines of communication
would be shot all to pieces in the rain of heavy shells. Great
Headquarters would be waiting anxiously for some news of the real status
and progress of the battle.

At 8:30 the fog was still holding over the field and McGee reluctantly
turned his ship homeward.

By that sixth sense which the seasoned pilot has, or develops, he found
the field. No one had been able to catch sight of the ground forces.

Cowan was storming around, under pressure from headquarters.

"It's information we want,"