and, relieving the orderly, pushed Red's chair down to a deep
shaded spot by the side of the pond.

"I can't see why they won't let me walk around," McGee complained.
"There's nothing wrong with my legs."

"No, but they're not so sure about that head, yet. Another few days and
you'll be running foot races," Larkin assured him.

"How long does it take a broken arm to heal, Buzz?"

"Two or three weeks--maybe four. You had a bad break. Maybe a little
longer. You're lucky, after all--maybe."

"What do you mean, lucky?" Red looked at him quizzically.

"Well, some of the boys haven't gotten off so easy."

"See here, Buzz, I'm tired of snatches of news. Tell me all you know
about--about everything. Back here the war seems so far away--and
unreal. Except for all these wounded men, and the uniforms, I'd never
think of it. No guns, no action, no--no dawn patrols. I feel like a fish
out of water. But there must be some little old war going on up there.
I've heard about Chateau-Thierry, by piecemeal. Boy! It was the big show
starting the very morning I got it, and we didn't even know it. Just my
luck to get forced down at a time like that!"

"Maybe not so tough," Buzz answered. "A Blighty, if it doesn't cripple,
is not so bad. Our casualties have been nearly forty per cent, from one
cause or another."

"No!" Red exclaimed in surprise.

Larkin nodded, dourly. "They sure have! We've been up against von
Herzmann's Circus most of the time, and that fellow hasn't any slouches
on his roster. That was one of his outfit that cracked your engine."

"Really? Did you get him?" Red asked, his face alight with interest.

Larkin shook his head. "No luck. I ducked to follow you. But Fouche got
him--his first that morning."

"That morning? You mean he--"

"Got another one, a flamer, just back of Chateau-Thierry. That boy is
some flyer! He's an ace already."

McGee's delight was genuine. "That's great! Never can tell, can you? I
didn't think much of his work." He hesitated, wanting to inquire about
the others but held back by that statement of Larkin's to the effect
that casualties were above forty per cent. He feared he would ask about
someone whose name was now enrolled in that sickening total.

"What about--Yancey?" he tried.

Larkin laughed. "Oh, that Texas cyclone is as wild as a range horse and
is due to get potted any minute. In fact, he's overdue. He's a balloon
busting fool, and no one can stop him. He has nine of them