's a German, I saw one just like
that over Poperinghe--it's coming right over."

"Stand by your cars, ladies, please."

The tall "chief's" sharp voice scattered the groups.

"He's dropping something--it's a bomb--no, it's a message bag. Look at
the streamers!"

A bag it was and when they raced to the field in which it fell they
discovered that it was improvised, roughly sewn and weighted with sand.

The superintendent read the label and frowned.

"'To the Driver of Ambulance B. T. 9743, 131st General Hospital'--this
is evidently for you, Miss Laramore."

"For me, Mrs. Crane?"

Vera Laramore came forward, a picture of astonishment and took the bag.

"Oh, what fun--who is it, Vera? Open it quickly."

The girl pulled open the bag and took out a letter. It bore the same
address as that which had been written on the label.

Slowly she tore off the end of the envelope.

There was a single sheet of paper written in a boyish hand. Without any
preliminary it ran:

"A sairgeant-pilot, feelin' sair,
A spitefu' thing may do,
An' so I come to you once mair
That I may say--an' true--
As you looked doon on me ane day,
Now I look doon on you!

"You, fra your height of pride an' clan
Heard your high spirit ca',
An' so you scorned the common man--
I saw yeer sweet face fa';
But, losh! I'm just that mighty high
I can't see you at a'!"

It was signed "T" and the girl's eyes danced with joy. She shaded her
eyes and looked up. The tiny airplane was turning and she waved her
handkerchief frantically.

"A friend of yours?" asked the superintendent with ominous politeness.

"Ye-es--it's Tam, Mrs. Crane--I ran into him--he ran into me
yesterday--"

"Tam?" even the severe superintendent was interested, "that remarkable
man--I should like to see him. Everybody is talking about him just now.
Was it a private letter or an official message from the aerodrome?"

"It was private," said the girl, very pink and a note of defiance in her
voice, and the superintendent very wisely dropped the subject.

"I really don't know how to send him an appropriate answer," said Vera
to her confidante and room-mate that evening. "I can't write poetry and
I can't fly."

"I shouldn't answer it," said her sensible friend briskly. "After all,
my dear, you don't want to start a flirtation with a sergeant--I mean,
it's hardly the thing, is it?"

The little pajama'd figure