o Americans watched.

"One of our fliers coming bark," remarked Tom in a low voice.

"I hope he brings more good news," returned Jack.

The approaching airman came rapidly nearer, and then the throngs that
had gathered about the headquarters building to discuss the news of the
arrival of the first American forces turned to watch the return of the
flier.

"It's Du Boise," remarked Tom, naming an intrepid French fighter. He was
one of the "aces," and had more than a score of Boche machines to
his credit. "He must have been out 'on his own,' looking for a stray
German."

"Yes, he and Leroy went out together," assented Jack. "But I don't see
Harry's machine," and anxiously he scanned the heavens.

Harry Leroy was, like Tom and Jack, an American aviator who had lately
joined the force in which the two friends had rendered such valiant
service. Tom and Jack had known him on the other side--had, in fact,
first met and become friendly with him at a flying school in Virginia.
Leroy had suffered a slight accident which had put him out of the flying
service for a year, but he had persisted, had finally been accepted, and
was welcomed to France by his chums who had preceded him.

"I hope nothing has happened to Harry," murmured Tom; "but I don't see
him, and it's queer Du Boise would come back without him."

"Maybe he had to--for gasoline or something," suggested Jack.

"I hope it isn't any worse than that," went on Tom. But his voice did
not carry conviction.

The French aviator landed, and as he climbed out of his machine, helped
by orderlies and others who rushed up, he was seen to stagger.

"Are you hurt?" asked Tom, hurrying up.

"A mere scratch-nothing, thank you," was the answer.

"Where's Harry Leroy?" Jack asked. "Did you have to leave him?"

"Ah, monsieur, I bring you bad news from the air," was the answer. "We
were attacked by seven Boche machines. We each got one, and then--well,
they got me--but what matters that? It is a mere nothing."

"What of Harry?" persisted Tom.

"Ah, it is of him I would speak. He is--he fell inside the enemy lines;
and I had to come back for help. My petrol gave out, and I--"'

And then, pressing his hands over his breast, the brave airman staggered
and fell, as a stream of blood issued from beneath his jacket.

CHAPTER II. A GIRL'S APPEAL

At once half a score of hands reached out to render aid to the stricken
airman, whose blood was staining the ground where h