taken from them at the
time the forces of the Crown Prince made their forward drive, at the
cost of more than a hundred thousand men.

Tom now felt another twinge in his shoulder. On looking into the matter
he discovered, as he suspected, that he had been wounded. Blood was
showing on his thick fur-lined coat.

Just then a plane approached him. Tom recognized the mark on the side,
and knew the muffled figure seated in the machine was the commander of
the escadrille. He was coming to ascertain whether the novice had drawn
out of his first combat entirely unscathed.

He had, in truth, cast many an anxious, fleeting look toward the pair
while Tom was "doing his bit" for France; for after discovering that the
German was an experienced pilot, and a man to be feared, the captain
would gladly have flown to the relief of Tom only that he had his hands
full with the Teuton he had attacked.

He made motions as he approached at reduced speed. Tom could not hear a
sound save the loud beat of his own motor, but he knew what the other
was asking.

So he touched his left shoulder with his finger, and held that up to
show that it was reddened. Then the Captain made a quick motion that was
meant for a command. Tom was to go down. There was no necessity for his
remaining aloft longer, now that another had arrived to relieve him from
the post of duty. He ought to call it a day's work, and have his
shoulder attended to.

Regretfully Tom obeyed. His fighting spirit was aroused, and he would
gladly have accepted a second challenge to combat, had the opportunity
come. He nodded his head to show he understood, and then started back
toward the French lines.

All this time shrapnel had been bursting here, there and everywhere
underneath them; but no one paid much attention to the shower. Indeed,
shrapnel does not account for as many hostile planes as might be
imagined; since each looks like a fly when ten thousand feet high, and
the surrounding space is so vast.

So Tom swung past the advance French lines, just as they were making
another forward movement. He could glimpse long lines of poilus
streaming over the shell-hole pitted terrain like ants in army array.
Tom would have been pleased to hover above them for a while, and watch
how those furious fighters rushed the Boches out of their second line
trenches, as though nothing could stay their push.

Beyond the French barrage fire was falling like a curtain. Tom could
tell this fro