crate came past on
a giant truck. Inside that case, every boy of them knew, was
the first flying machine to reach the new grounds. They felt it
an omen.

A few minutes later they were in the austere presence of Colonel
Marker, who was frankly pleased with their soldierly appearance
and the quiet common-sense of their uniforms, which bore no fancy
additions of any sort.

Grace Corwin had seen to that, though more than one furtive suggestion
from one boy or another had to be overruled. Bob Haines thought the
letters "B.B." on the shoulders would vastly help the effect. Crossed
flags on the right sleeve would have suited Dicky Mann better. Fat
Benson's voice was raised for brass buttons. Jimmy Hill's
pretensions ran to a gilt aeroplane propellor for the front of each
soft khaki hat. But Grace was firm. "No folderols," was her
dictum. They were banded together for work, not for show. Let
additions come as the fruit of service, if at all. And she had her
way. Grace usually did.

"Glad to see you, boys. You will report to the sergeant-major, who
will take a list of your names, assign you your duties, and arrange
your hours of work. I am afraid there is no congressional grant
from which to reward you for your services by a money payment, but
if you do your work well, such as it is, I will keep an eye on you
and see if I cannot put you in the way of learning as much as you
can about the air service."

That was their beginning. They saluted, every one, turned smartly
and filed out. Bob Haines, the tallest of the group and the acknowledged
leader, was the only one to answer the colonel. Bob said, "Thank you,
sir," as he saluted. They looked so strong and full of life and hope
that the tears welled to the colonel's eyes as he watched them tramp
out of his room. He had seen much war, had the colonel. "It's a
shame that such lads will have to pay the great price, many of 'em,"
he sighed, "before the Hun is brought to his knees. But it's a fine
thing to be a boy." The colonel rose stiffly and sighed. "I would
give a lot to be in their shoes, with all the hardship and horror
that may lie in front of them if this war keeps on long enough," he
mused to himself. "It's a fine thing to be a boy."

Out went the eight Brighton boys to the sergeant-major, their work
begun. They too felt it a fine thing to be boys, though their feeling
was just unconscious, natural, effervescent---the sparkle of the real
wine o