few days despite the fact that the Ack Emma declares
she is top hole. So fly high and handsome. Know the way?"

Larkin was crawling into his flying suit and did not answer.

"Know the way?" McGee repeated.

"Sure. That's a fine question to ask a pilot bound for Paris. We land at
Le Bourget field, you know."

"No, I didn't know."

"Where'd you think you'd land--in the Champs Elysees?"

"I'm liable to land on a church steeple if that motor cuts out on me as
it did yesterday afternoon--for no reason at all. Remember, no contour
chasing and no dog-fighting. We're going to Paris."

Larkin grinned. Rarely did they go into the air together but what they
engaged in mimic warfare--dog-fighting--before their wheels again
touched the ground. It was the airman's game of tag, the winner being
that one who could get on the other's tail and stay there. It was a
thunderous, strut singing game wherein the pursued threw his plane into
fantastic gyrations in a frenzied, wild effort to shake off the pursuer
and get on his tail. It was a game in which McGee excelled. Although
Larkin recognized this fact, he was always the first to start the dog
fight and had never found McGee unwilling to play. As for contour
chasing--well, they had broken regulations times without number, and to
date had paid no penalty.

McGee, knowing what thoughts lurked behind Larkin's grin, wagged a
prudent finger under his nose.

"Mind your step, Buzz," he warned. "We are supposed to be sedate,
dignified, instruction-keeping instructors. Fly northwest to Auxerre,
then follow the railroad toward Sens and on to Melun. Then swing
straight north and come into Le Bourget from the east."

"All right. All set?"

"Yes. You lead off and I'll follow. Wait! On second thought I think I'll
lead and pick my own altitude. And if you start any funny business, I'll
leave you flat!"

They climbed into the waiting planes, whose motors were still warming
idly. Members of the ground crew took up their stations at the wing
tips. McGee was on the point of nodding to the crew to remove the wheel
chocks when he remembered that for the first time in his experience as a
pilot he had climbed into the cockpit without first casting an
appraising eye over braces, struts and turn buckles. He promptly cut the
motor and climbed from the plane, saying, half aloud; "I must be getting
balmy. It's the weather, I guess."

"How's that, sir?" asked the air mechanic.

"I say, it's balmy wea