t the possibility of flying _through_
the Arc de Triomphe, which, he claimed could be done with six feet
to spare at each wing-tip. This, and climbing the Eiffel Tower on
its girders, were two of his pet projects.

On a Sunday in August of 1918 there were assembled around his
drafting-board an interested and receptive audience of four--Peters,
an ensign attached to the "lighter-than-air" section; Madden, a
pilot on his way up from Italy to the Northern Bombing Group; Erskine,
a lieutenant in the Operations Division; and Matthews, a chief yeoman.

"Yes," Dempsey was saying, "I'm _beaucoup_ sorry for these here
frawgs. They're just bein' massacred--that's all it is--_massacred_.
And there don't anybody take much notice, either. Say, somebody was
tellin' me the other day just how many the French has lost since the
beginnin' of the war. Just about one million. I wouldn't believe it,
but it's straight. It was a French colonel that was tellin' me out
to the Hispano factory day before yesterday, and he'd oughta know
because he was through the battle of the Marne and the Soam, and
everything."

"Did he tell you in French?" inquired Ensign Peters, meaningly, for
Dempsey's French was admittedly limited.

"Pardon?" said Dempsey, and then, grasping the innuendo: "No, sir,
he did _not_. Why, he talks English as good as you and me. That's
another thing about these frawgs--they can all _parlez-vous_ any
language. I never yet seen a Frenchie I couldn't talk to yet."

"Did you ever see anybody you couldn't talk to yet, Steve?"
suggested the chief yeoman.

"Here, you, how d'ya get that way? Who was it I seen th' other night
out walking in the Boy de Bullone with a skirt? And I guess you
wasn't talkin'--why, you was talkin' so fast you had to help out
with your hands, just like a frawg.... No, as I say, I feel sorry
for these French in more ways than one."

"Just how do you display that sorrow?" asked Ensign Madden.

Dempsey hesitated an instant, scratched his head, and very carefully
drew a line on the tracing-paper in front of him.

"Well, sir," he said, finally, "I displayed it last Sunday."

Then he relapsed into silence, and resumed work on the drawing. But
as he worked he grinned quietly--a provocative grin which inspired
curiosity.

"What did you do last Sunday?" prodded Peters.

The grin widened as Steve glanced up from the board. He laid aside
his instruments, tilted back in his chair, and said: "Well, it
wasn't