ht at the Base, it being holiday at his
preparatory school at Beckenham, and he had already become familiar and
domestic with every one in authority from the Base Commandant downwards.
"Thank you," I said. "I will." He clambered back into bed at a word from
his father. By the side of the bed was a small library. It consisted of
_The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes_, _The Cock-House at Fellsgarth_, and
Newbolt's _Pages from Froissart_. Peter was rather eclectic in his
tastes, but they were thoroughly sound. On the table were the contents
of Peter's pockets, turned out nightly by the express orders of his
father, for this is war-time, and the wear and tear of schoolboys'
jackets is a prodigious item of expenditure. I made a rapid mental
inventory of them:

(1) A button of the Welsh Fusiliers.

(2) Some dozen cartridge-cases from a Lewis machine-gun
requisitioned by Peter from the Flying-Ground.

(3) A miniature aeroplane--the wings rather crumpled as though the
aviator had been forced to make a hurried descent.

(4) A knife.

(5) Several pieces of string.

(6) A coloured "alley."

(7) Some cigarette-card portraits, highly coloured, of Lord
Kitchener, Sir John French, and General Smith-Dorrien.

(8) A top.

(9) A conglomerate of chocolate, bull's-eyes, and acid drops.

For the kit of an officer of field rank in His Majesty's Army it was
certainly a peculiar collection, few or none of these articles being
included in the Field Service regulations. Still, not more peculiar than
some of the things with which solicitous friends and relatives encumber
officers at the Front.

The next morning we ascended the downs above the harbour, and Peter
piloted me to the Flying-Ground. Here we came upon a huge hangar in
which were docked half a dozen aeroplanes, light as a Canadian canoe and
graceful as a dragon-fly. Peter calmly climbed up into one of them and
proceeded to move levers and adjust controls, explaining the whole
business to me with the professional confidence of a fully certificated
airman.

"Hulloa, that you, Peter?" said a voice from the other side of the
aeroplane. The owner wore the wings of the Flying Corps on his breast.

"It's me, Captain S----," said Peter. "Allow me to introduce my friend
----" he added, looking down over the side of the aeroplane. "He's
attached to the staff at G.H.Q.," he added impressively. For the first
time I realised,