outh of twenty from Salt Lake City, Utah, who
was known to have eked out a livelihood on fifty cents a day at Dayton,
O., so that he could pay for his training as a pilot; another youngster,
scion of a wealthy Argentine family with English connections; and an
Englishman, just over thirty, who had been born in California and had
heard the 1914 call of the mother country. They were cramped, but
comfortable.

In other chairs of the deep, comfy English variety were a rancher from
Canada; an Olympic champion, whose name has often figured in big type in
New York's evening newspapers; a lieutenant-commander of the Royal Navy,
who had hunted big game in three continents; a wind-seared first mate of
a British tramp; a tanned tea-planter from Ceylon; a 'Varsity man from
Cambridge, whose aim had been a curacy in the English Church; a
newspaper man from Rochester, N. Y.; a London broker; the head of a
London print and lithographing business, looked upon as one of the best
pilots in the service; and a publisher, who in pre-war days had been
more interested in "best sellers" than in seaplanes.

All were dreadnoughts who looked upon it as a privilege to give their
lives to smash Prussian militarism. If you had asked any one of them for
an interview he would have scoffed at the idea. But ordinary
newspapermen cannot be blamed for being enthralled at the share of these
pilots in the World War. What's printed about them? Just a paragraph to
the effect that "Several seaplanes last night bombed Zeebrugge or
Cuxhaven." They dashed out into the frigid North Sea with an errand,
but their share in the fights and the valuable assistance they have been
to Great Britain as scouts are seldom mentioned. Still, they "carry on,"
asking for no encouragement. And right here it must be explained that
"carry on" means to do or die in this war. It is the byword of the
British of the day.

It chanced that "Tidy," as we will call him, was the first speaker who
had something to say. He had a reason for talking, for some evil genius
had followed him for two days. The yarn is best told in his own words,
so far as they can be remembered.

"It was my patrol and I started from France at half-past five o'clock in
the morning," began the seaplane pilot. "I shot out to sea for about
thirty miles, and then continued to run along the coast for about 63
miles. I caught sight of a Dutch ship, and a little while afterwards
observed a submarine. Almost as soon as I sa