etaliate. There is a rumor that we
may go after some of his sausages, and I may need you for that."

"Does he mean our rations have gone short, and that we'll have to go
collecting bolognas?" innocently asked a young American, who had lately
joined.

"No," laughed Tom. "We call the German observation balloons 'sausages.'
And sometimes, when they send up too many of them, to get observations
and spoil our plans for an offensive, we raid them. It's difficult work,
for we have to take them unawares or they'll haul them down. We
generally go in a double squadron for this work. The heavy Caudrons
screen the movements of the little Nieuports, and these latter, each
with a single man in it, fire phosphorus bullets at the gas bags of the
German sausages.

"These phosphorus bullets get red hot from the friction of the air, and
set the gas envelope aglow. That starts the hydrogen gas to going
and--good-night to Mr. Fritz unless he can drop in his parachute. A raid
on the sausages is full of excitement, but it means a lot of
preparation, for if there has any rain or dew fallen in the night the
gas bags will be so damp that they can't be set on fire, and the raid is
off."

"Say, you know a lot about this business, don't you?" asked the young
fellow who had put the question.

"Nobody knows a _lot_ about it," replied Jack. "Just as soon as he does
he gets killed, or something happens to him. We're just learning--that's
all."

"Well, I wish I knew as much," observed the other enviously.

Tom and Jack walked on toward the post-office, being in rather a hurry
to see if there was any mail for them, and to get back to their stations
in case their services were needed.

As they went along they were greeted by friends, of whom they had many,
for they had made names for themselves, young as they were. And, as a
matter of fact, nearly all the aviators are young. It takes young nerves
for the work.

"Here's one letter, anyhow!" observed Tom, as he tore open a missive
that was handed to him. "It's from dad, too! I hope he's all right. He
must have been when he wrote this, for it's in his own hand."

"I've got one from my mother," said Jack. "They're all well," he went
on, quickly scanning the epistle. "But they haven't received our last
letters."

"That isn't surprising," said Tom. "The mail service is fierce. But I
suppose it can't be helped. We're lucky to get these. And say!" he
exclaimed excitedly, as he read on in his letter