"

Tam pulled at his cigar with a pained expression, removed the Corona
from his mouth, eyeing it with a disappointed sneer, and sniffed
disparagingly before he replied.

"Sir-r," he said, "the habits of the Hoon, or Gairman, ha'e been ma life
study. Often in the nicht when ye gentlemen at the mess are smokin' bad
seegairs an' playin' the gamblin' game o' bridge-whist, Tam o' the
Scoots is workin' oot problems in Gairman psych--I forget the bonnie
waird. There he sits, the wee man wi'oot so much as a seegair to keep
him company--thank ye, sir-r, A'll not smoke it the noo, but 'twill be
welcomed by one of the sufferin' mechanics--there sits Tam, gettin' into
the mind, or substitute, of the Hoon."

"But do you seriously believe that you have scared him?"

Tam's eyes twinkled.

"Mr. Craig, sir-r, what do ye fear wairst in the world?"

Craig thought a moment.

"Snakes," he said.

"An' if ye wanted to strafe a feller as bad as ye could, would ye put
him amongst snakes?"

"I can't imagine anything more horrible," shuddered Craig.

"'Tis the same with the Hoon. He goes in for frichtfulness because he's
afraid of frichtfulness. He bombs little toons because he's scairt of
his ain little toons bein' bombed. He believes we get the wind up
because he'd be silly wi' terror if we did the same thing to him. Ye can
always scare a Hoon--that's ma theery, sir-r."

Craig had no further opportunity for discussing the matter, for the next
morning he was "concussed" in midair and retained sufficient sense to
bring his machine to the ground. Unfortunately the ground was in the
temporary occupation of the German.

So Craig went philosophically into bondage.

He was taken to German Headquarters and handed over to von Zeiglemann's
wing "for transport."

"This is Mr. von Mahl," introduced Zeiglemann gravely (they were going
in to lunch); "you have heard of him."

Craig raised his eyebrows, for the spirit of mischief was on him.

"Von Mahl," he said with well-assumed incredulity; "why, I thought--oh,
by the way, is to-day the sixteenth?"

"To-morrow is the sixteenth," snarled von Mahl. "What happens to-morrow,
Herr Englishman?"

"I beg your pardon," said Craig politely; "I'm afraid I can not tell
you--it would not be fair to Tam."

And von Mahl went out in a sweat of fear.

* * * * *

From somewhere overhead came a sound like a snarl of a buzz-saw as it
bites into hard wood. Tam, who was