Tam o' the Scoots. Wallace Edgar

drew blank, and on the third day took part in an organized raid upon enemy communications, fighting his way back from the interior of Belgium single-handed, for he had allowed himself to be "rounded out" and had to dispose of two enemy machines before he could go in pursuit of the bombing squadrons. In consequence, he had to meet and reject the attentions of every ruffled enemy that the bombers and their bullies had fought in passing.

      At five o'clock in the evening he dropped from the heavens in one straight plummet dive which brought him three miles in a little under one minute.

      "Did you meet Müller?" asked Captain Blackie; "he's about—he shot down Mr. Grey this morning whilst you were away."

      "Mr. Gree? Weel, weel!" said Tam, shaking, "puir soul—he wis a verra guid gentleman—wit' a gay young hairt."

      "I hope Tam will pronounce my epitaph," said Blackie to Bolt, the observer; "he doesn't know how to think unkindly of his pals."

      "Tam will get Müller," said Bolt. "I saw the scrap the other day—Tam was prepared to kill himself if he could bring him down. He was out for a collision, I'll swear, and Müller knew it and lost his nerve for the fight. That means that Müller is hating himself and will go running for Tam at the first opportunity."

      "Tam shall have his chance. The new B. I. 6 is ready and Tam shall have it."

      Now every airman knows the character of the old B. I. 5. She was a fast machine, could rise quicker than any other aeroplane in the world. She could do things which no other machine could do, and could also behave as no self-respecting aeroplane would wish to behave. For example, she was an involuntary "looper." For no apparent reason at all she would suddenly buck like a lunatic mustang. In these frenzies she would answer no appliance and obey no other mechanical law than the law of gravitation.

      Tam had tried B. I. 5, and had lived to tell the story. There is a legend that he reached earth flying backward and upside down, but that is probably without foundation. Then an ingenious American had taken B. I. 5 in hand and had done certain things to her wings, her tail, her fuselage and her engine and from the chaos of her remains was born B. I. 6, not unlike her erratic mother in appearance, but viceless.

      Tam learned of his opportunity without any display of enthusiasm.

      "A' doot she's na guid," he said. "Captain Blackie, sir-r, A've got ma ain idea what B. I. stands for. It's no complimentary to the inventor. If sax is better, than A'm goin' to believe in an auld sayin'."

      "What is that, Tam?"

      "'Theer's safety in numbers,'" said Tam, "an' the while A'm on the subject of leeterature A'd like yeer opinion on a vairse A' made aboot Mr. MacMuller."

      He produced a folded sheet of paper, opened it, and read,

      "Amidst the seelance of the stars

      He fell, yon dooty mon o' Mars.

      The angels laffit

      To see this gaillant baird-man die.

      'At lairst! At lairst!' the angels cry,

      'We've ain who'll teach us hoo to fly—

      Thanks be, he's strafit!'"

      "Fine," said Blackie with a smile, "but suppose you're 'strafit' instead?"

      "Pit the wee pome on ma ain wreath," said Tam simply; "'t 'ill be true."

      CHAPTER IV

      THE STRAFING OF MÜLLER

      On the earth, rain was falling from gray and gloomy clouds. Above those clouds the sun shone down from a blue sky upon a billowing mass that bore a resemblance to the uneven surface of a limitless plain of lather. High, but not too high above cloud-level, a big white Albatross circled serenely, its long, untidy wireless aerial dangling.

      The man in the machine with receivers to his ears listened intently for the faint "H D" which was his official number. Messages he caught—mostly in English, for he was above the British lines.

      "Nine—Four.... Nine—four … nine—four," called somebody insistently. That was a "spotter" signaling a correction of range, then.... "Stop where you are.... K L B Q.... Bad light.... Signal to X O 73 last shot.... Repeat your signal .... No.... Bad light.... Sorry—bad light.... Stay where you are...."

      He guessed some, could not follow others. The letter-groups were, of course, code messages indicating the distance shells were bursting from their targets. The apologies were easily explained, for the light was very bad indeed.