zen people in Dovstone swore to having seen a German
aeroplane touch earth in our field. The pilot had been made prisoner by
Anzadians, added the dozen eye-witnesses.

Such an event clearly called for investigation by Dovstone's detective
intellects. We were honoured by a visit from two special constables,
looking rather like the Bing Boys. Their collective eagle eye grasped
the situation in less than a second. I happened to be standing in the
centre of the group, still clad in flying kit. The Bing Boys decided
that I was their prey, and one of them advanced, flourishing a
note-book.

"Excuse me, sir," said he to a Brass Hat, "I represent the civil
authority. Will you please tell me if this"--pointing to me--"is the
captive baby-killer?"

"Now give us the chorus, old son," said Marmaduke. Explanations
followed, and the Bing Boys retired, rather crestfallen.

It is embarrassing enough to be mistaken for a German airman. It is
more embarrassing to be mistaken for an airman who shot down a German
airman when there was no German airman to shoot down. Such was the fate
of the four of us--two pilots and two observers--when we left our field
to the cow and the conference of Brass Hats, and drove to the Grand
Hotel. The taxi-driver, who, from his enthusiastic civility, had clearly
never driven a cab in London, would not be convinced.

"No, sir," he said, when we arrived at the hotel, "I'm proud to have
driven you, and I don't want your money. No, sir, I know you avi-yaters
are modest and aren't allowed to say what you've done. Good day,
gentlemen, and good luck, gentlemen."

It was the same in the Grand Hotel. Porters and waiters asked what had
become of "the Hun," and no denial could fully convince them. At a tango
tea held in the hotel that afternoon we were pointed out as the intrepid
birdmen who had done the deed of the day. Flappers and fluff-girls
further embarrassed us with interested glances, and one of them asked
for autographs.

Marmaduke rose to the occasion. He smiled, produced a gold-tipped
fountain-pen, and wrote with a flourish, "John James Christopher
Benjamin Brown. Greetings from Dovstone."

But Marmaduke the volatile was doomed to suffer a loss of dignity. He
had neglected to bring an emergency cap, which an airman on a
cross-country flight should never forget. Bareheaded he accompanied us
to a hatter's. Here the R.F.C. caps of the "stream-lined" variety had
all been sold, so the war baby was oblige