the
skill was not equally placed. The Fokker was now spinning down,
obviously out of control, and McGee was following, filling it with
enough lead to sink it. It spun earthward, sickening in its erratic
gyrations.

McGee pulled up on his stick, banked sharply, bringing himself alongside
Larkin. They waved to each other, exultantly. Larkin, who a few minutes
ago had decided that his luck had played out its string, swallowed his
heart, murmured "Whew!" and surveyed the field.

The green and gold plane of von Herzmann was now a rapidly diminishing
speck against the cloud bank toward la Chapelle, streaking for the
Fatherland. The others, lacking a leader, and facing unequal chances
with the timely and unexpected appearance of the French Spads, were
withdrawing from the action with all the speed they could get out of
their wonderful motors. And that was speed enough.

The French Spads had come out of a cloud bank just in time to upset the
well laid plans of the German ace, and that worthy, never expecting such
a dare-devil, self-sacrificing move as made by Larkin, had for once been
taken by surprise. He had been damaged enough to force immediate
retirement. The celerity with which his group abandoned the project and
followed in his wake gave glowing tribute to the true value and
leadership of that youth who flew the green and gold plane. With him as
leader, they would have taken a toll, despite the unexpected arrival of
the Spads. But with von Herzmann, their idol and their pride, forced
from the fight by a hated Englander flying a dinky little Camel--well,
the Fatherland could be served some other day.

But von Herzmann had been right in his boast that he would scatter the
Americans like quails. As the French Spads pursued the fleeing Fokkers,
which were numerically strong enough to make a too vigorous pursuit
unwise and unhealthy, Major Cowan took up the task of gathering his
brood. He flew around, bringing them together, signaling instructions to
take up positions, and pointing westward along the line of flight. Three
of his brood, however, were crushed and crumpled fledglings on the
ground far below. Carpenter, and fat, jolly little McWilliams, had
collided while engaging an enemy. Their crumpled wings had locked fast
in an embrace that spun them down dizzily to a crashing, splintering
death. And Nathan Rodd, he who spared his words, had also been a bit too
provident or tardy with his fire and had been sent down out