us and irregular
he is acutely conscious of the sound.

When the machine began to lose height I knew there was a chronic miss.
V. looked round and smiled reassuringly, though he himself was far from
reassured. He tried an alteration in the carburettor mixture, but this
did not remedy matters. Next, thinking that the engine might have been
slightly choked, he cut off the petrol supply for a moment and put down
the nose of the machine. The engine stopped, but picked up when the
petrol was once more allowed to run. During the interval I thought the
engine had ceased work altogether, and was about to stuff things into my
pocket in readiness for a landing on hostile ground.

We continued in a westerly direction, with the one cylinder still
cutting out. To make matters worse, the strong wind that had been our
friend on the outward journey was now an enemy, for it was drifting us
to the north, so that we were obliged to steer almost dead into it to
follow the set course.

As we passed along the straight canal from Le Recul to Princebourg many
barges were in evidence. Those at the side of the canal were taken to be
moored up, and those in the middle to be moving, though the slowness of
their speed made it impossible to decide on their direction, for from a
height of ten thousand feet they seemed to be stationary. About a dozen
Hun machines were rising from aerodromes at Passementerie, away to the
left, but if they were after us the attempt to reach our height in time
was futile.

Between Le Recul and Princebourg we dropped fifteen hundred feet below
the three rear machines, which hovered above us. Though I was far from
feeling at home, it was necessary to sweep the surrounding country for
transport of all kinds. This was done almost automatically, since I
found myself unable to give a whole-hearted attention to the job, while
the infernal motif of the engine's rag-time drone dominated everything
and invited speculation on how much lower we were than the others, and
whether we were likely to reach a friendly landing-ground. And all the
while a troublesome verse chose very inopportunely to race across the
background of my mind, in time with the engine, each cut-out being the
end of a line. Once or twice I caught myself murmuring--

"In that poor but honest 'ome,
Where 'er sorrowin' parints live,
They drink the shampyne wine she sends,
But never, never can fergive."

Slightly to the east of Princebourg, a n