and had met his Albatross before. He called him
the "Croon Prince" because the black crosses painted on his wings were
of a more elaborate design than was usual.

"You might meet the baron, Tam," said the wing commander. "He's just off
to the Cage, and he wants to say 'How-d'-ye-do.'"

Tam met the prisoner and shook hands with great solemnity.

"Hoo air ye, sir-r?" he asked with admirable sang-froid. "A' seem to
remember yer face though A' hae no' met ye--only to shoot at, an' that
spoils yeer chance o' gettin' acquainted wi' a body."

"I think we've met before," said the baron with a grim little smile.
"Oh, before I forget, we very much appreciated your poem, Tam; there are
lines in it which were quite beautiful."

Tam flushed crimson with pleasure.

"Thank ye, sir-r," he blurted. "Ye couldna' 'a' made me more
pleased--even if A' killit ye."

The baron threw back his head and laughed.

"Good-by, Tam--take care of yourself. There's a new man come to us who
will give you some trouble."

"It's no' Mister MacMuller?" asked Tam eagerly.

"Oh--you've heard of Captain Mueller?" asked the prisoner interestedly.

"Haird?--good Lord, mon--sir-r, A' mean--look here!"

He put his hand in his pocket and produced a worn leather case. From
this he extracted two or three newspaper cuttings and selected one,
headed "German Official."

"'Captain Muller,'" read Tam, "'yesterday shot doon his twenty-sixth
aeroplane.'"

"That's Mueller," said the other carefully. "I can tell you no
more--except look after yourself."

"Ha'e na doot aboot that, sir-r," said Tam with confidence.

He went up that afternoon in accordance with instructions received from
headquarters to "search enemy territory west of a line from Montessier
to St. Pierre le Petit."

He made his search, and sailed down with his report as the sun reached
the horizon.

"A verra quiet joorney," he complained, "A' was hopin' for a squint at
Mr. MacMuller, but he was sleeping like a doormoose--A' haird his snoor
risin' to heaven an' ma hairt wis sick wi' disappointed longin'. 'Hoo
long,' A' says, 'hoo long will ye avoid the doom Tam o' the Scoots has
marked ye doon for?' There wis naw reply."

"I've discovered Tam's weird pal," said Blackie, coming into the mess
before lunch the next day. "He is Claude Beaumont of the American
Squadron--Lefevre, the wing commander, was up to-day. Apparently
Beaumont is an exceedingly rich young man who has equipped a wing with