rove slowly, his eyes wandering occasionally from the
road to make a professional scrutiny of the skies. He spotted the
lonely watches of 89 Squadron and smiled, for 89 had vowed many oaths
that they would catch the "Sausage-Killer," and had even initiated a
sweepstakes for the lucky man who crashed him.

At a certain quiet restaurant on the Grand' Place he found a girl
waiting for him, a girl in soiled khaki, critically examining the menu.

She looked up with a smile as the young man came in, hung his cap upon a
peg and drew out the chair opposite.

"I have ordered the tea, though it is awfully early," she said; "now
tell me what you have been doing all the morning."

She spoke with an air of proprietorship, a tone which marked the
progress of this strange friendship, which had indeed gone very far
since Tam's violent introduction to Vera Laramore on the Amiens road.

"Weel," said Tam, and hesitated.

"Please don't give me a dry report," she warned him. "I want the real
story, with all its proper fixings."

"Hoo shall A' start?" asked Tam.

"You start with the beginning of the day. Now, properly, Tam."

Her slim finger threatened him.

"Is it literature ye'd be wanting?" asked Tam shyly.

She nodded, and Tam shut his eyes and began after the style of an
amateur elocutionist:

"The dawn broke fair and bonny an' the fairest rays of the rising sun
fell upon the sleeping 'Sausage-Killer'--"

"Who is the 'Sausage-Killer'?" asked the girl, startled.

"He'll be the villain of the piece, A'm thinkin'," said Tam, "but if ye
interrupt--"

"I am sorry," murmured the girl, apologetically.

She sat with her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her clasped
hands and her eyes fixed on Tam, eyes that danced with amusement, with
admiration, and with just that hint of tenderness that you might expect
in the proud mother showing off the accomplishments of her first-born.

"--fell aboot the heid of the Sausage-Killer,'" Tam went on, "bathin'
his shaven croon wi' saft radiance. There was a discreet tap at the
door, and Wilhelm MacBethmann, his faithful retainer, staggered in,
bearin' his cup of acorn coffee.

"'Rise, _mein Herr_,' says he, 'get oot o' bed, ma bonnie laird.'

"'What o'clock is it, Angus?' says the 'Sausage-Killer,' sitting up and
rubbing his eyes.

"'It's seven, your Majesty,' says MacBethmann, 'shall I lay out yeer
synthetic sausage or shall I fry up yesterday's sauerkraut?'

"But the 'Sausage