While Lucy's thoughts were so much with Bob across the seas he was wrapped up heart and soul in the work in which he longed to excel. Not but that an hour came every day when he thought of home and longed for those who waited for him, but the hour was a short one, for he needed all the time he could spare for sleep, to keep his brain alert and clear as an aviator's must be who does not court disaster.

Not that Bob was an aviator yet, after eight weeks of training, but he began to be called upon pretty frequently by Captain Benton to accompany him in his flights. Bob's duty as observer was to sit in front of the pilot, with a map fastened on a board laid across his knees, and keep a close watch of the country over which they flew, usually as nearly adjacent to the enemy's lines as possible, noting every change in the German positions which might be of value, such as new trenches, roads, railways, hidden artillery or machine-gun emplacements. With powerful field-glasses he scrutinized the earth below, hastily sketching in on his map any alterations observable, as well as keeping a sharp lookout for exploding shrapnel aimed too accurately in their direction.

Bob was an excellent draughtsman, the second in his class at West Point, and for the honor of accompanying Benton he practised his sketching at every random opportunity. Together the two flew repeatedly over the German lines, sometimes retiring swiftly before pursuing guns, sometimes getting just the information they wanted and returning triumphant. Bob was becoming an expert mechanic, and he looked forward with boundless eagerness to the time when he should be a fearless pilot like Benton, for he had learned with joy in the past month that the "grit and steady endurance" his father had spoken of were really his.

Meanwhile in Benton's two-seated biplane he scouted over numberless French villages, and grew to have a knowledge of the battle-front stamped on his mind with the geometrical exactness of a map of the earth seen from thousands of feet in the air. Benton was known not only to his friends but to the Germans as well, where his reputation was firmly established as an enemy worthy of respect. His airplane was watched for, and its easy, graceful evolutions marked out at once by anti-aircraft gunners. But Benton was not fond of bravado, and he took few unnecessary risks. His dangerous flights were made in safety, and Bob's confidence in the air daily increased.

All during November he and Benton worked together outside of Bob's hours of practice and study, and the last of the month found them firm friends and pretty constant companions.

It was on November 24th, at about seven in the morning, that an orderly brought word to Bob, at breakfast in the mess shack, that Captain Benton wished to see him. Bob swallowed his coffee, went out and found Benton standing in the field by his airplane, looking carefully over the wire supports.

"Sorry to hurry you, Gordon," he said pleasantly as Bob came up, "but I want to get off at once if you can manage it. They just telephoned us that the Germans have fortified the village of Petit-Bois, up the valley there, for their expected retreat, and information is wanted of their defenses as soon as possible."

"I'm ready," said Bob. "Five minutes to get my camera plates and stuff." He was dressed for flying, in fur-lined service coat, and it only remained to fetch gloves and fur helmet from his shack.

The morning was dull and cloudy, with a raw coldness in the air. To Bob one of the delights of an early start was to fly up into the rays of the morning sun. But to-day when, ten minutes later, they mounted toward the east, the cold, gray clouds seemed endlessly banked above them, and Bob picked up the speaking tube to say, doubtfully:

"Not much photography to-day, Benton. Did you expect it?"

"No," Benton replied. "We shan't be able to get within range for that unless they are all asleep."

At eight thousand feet an airplane is almost safe from rifle or machine-gun fire. But at this height no photographs of any value can be taken. To fly at four or five hundred feet over the enemy would be ideal for observing and photography, but would mean almost certain death to pilot and observer. So an unsatisfactory middle course of two to four thousand feet is usually adopted. Benton did not hesitate to fly low where he could gain valuable information, but he was usually prudent.

Bob's map was spread across his knees, and as they neared the German lines he scrutinized with his glasses the outskirts of the village they approached. Nothing new seemed to require closer attention here. Benton circled and flew behind the village, rising a hundred feet higher as black, white and yellow puffs of smoke appearing from below indicated enemy guns aimed at the tiny target the biplane offered. Suddenly Bob stiffened.

"Ah! Here we have it!" he cried exultantly. "A nice new line of concrete block-houses, Benton, right behind the village—their second line of defense. Fly a little lower, can't you?"

"No," called back the pilot with his usual calmness, "but we'll go a bit further north, so you can find out the extent of the line. Those gunners don't seem very clever yet, but they're getting closer."

Bob sketched for dear life while the machine floated and hovered. Below in a narrow strip of woodland beyond the village he could distinguish plainly the tiny bald spots that marked the hastily constructed fortifications.

"Good, we're losing them," remarked Benton, glancing down. "The clouds have hidden us, I think."

Below them a swirling fog bank sheltered the airplane a moment from the gunners, but it also began to cut off Bob's view, and Benton had to dodge and circle for openings in the misty curtain.

"Why, we're above the village—there are the trenches," said Bob presently. "Cut back south—it's clearer now. Blessed if we haven't got the best bit of information this month," he added joyfully. "Can't get everything in one trip, but this is enough to help if the Boches retreat this week, and it looks to every one as though they meant to."

Bob's enthusiastic fingers pressed too hard and the lead of his pencil snapped. He felt in his pocket for another, thinking oddly of Lucy as he did so, for she had always come to him when he was at home to sharpen her pencils. It usually took Lucy several pencils to get through an arithmetic lesson. He rubbed his bare hand against the pocket lining, for the air was nipping cold.

"Huh!" said Benton suddenly.

Bob could not hear him, but he felt the airplane sharply veer. He seized the speaking tube and shouted, "What's the matter?"

For a second he thought Benton had been hit, for shrapnel was again bursting near them at intervals, and he glanced quickly toward the steering gear. By means of the dual control the observer, in case of accident to the pilot, can bring the airplane safely to ground.

"Don't know," said Benton sharply, "but we're not getting enough gas. You pick out a landing-place for us in double-quick time, if you don't want to land in those tree-tops." His cool voice was shaken with furious disgust—the steady, swift race of the engine had grown jerky and uneven.

Bob heard it and understood. With frenzied haste he searched the landscape with his glasses, growing suddenly cold beneath his clothes at thought of the dizzy depth below.

"There's a meadow just to the left," he said at last, "north of the village—see it? It's the only decent place in sight—but, Benton—it's behind the German lines."

"Don't I know it?" said Benton gruffly. "Then here goes." He cut off the spark, and the airplane began to fall.

Bob had snatched his map from the board and folded it closely. He drew now from a box at his feet a pearly white carrier pigeon and, fastening the map to her leg by a rubber band, stroked her once and tossed her high in the air. No matter what happened to them his morning's observations would safely reach the squadron's camp.

They were barely four hundred feet above the earth now, and the continued firing of the German guns behind them seemed to indicate that in the misty atmosphere the enemy had not seen their descent and was still searching for them in the heights.

"All right, pretty good place—down we go," said Benton, peering out ahead. In another moment the machine touched the grass of the meadow and coasted along it to the shelter of a little grove of firs near the farther end.

"Somewhere in France," remarked Benton grimly, taking off his goggles and staring around him. "Only it begins to look more like somewhere in Germany."

"There's nobody in sight," said Bob, stepping out on to the grass. "I should think we were several miles north of the village."

"Not more than two," declared Benton, taking off his gloves and turning up the ear flaps of his helmet preparatory to bending over the engine. He took another swift glance around, frowning. "They may have seen us come down and they may not, but we'll have to take it for granted that they didn't, and do our work with that idea. If the trouble is in the feed pipe, as I think it is, we ought to make repairs in an hour or two. It isn't but ten o'clock now." He looked up at the sun, which was dimly visible through the heavy clouds. "If it will only stay thick and hazy we'll have a fair chance of escaping notice in case any one happens along in this field."

"There's a house behind those trees," said Bob doubtfully, nodding toward the woods on their right. "It looks like a farmer's cottage. You can't see it now, but I caught sight of the chimney while we were making our landing."

"Well, it can't be helped," said Benton coolly. "Our only chance is to fix up and get away before they see us."

He had his tools out and was ready to engross himself in the task before him. Not for nothing had this famous pilot been brought up on a Wyoming cattle ranch, where calm thought and quick action had saved his life more than once in his boy-hood. With a strong probability of never finishing his repairs he set to work with as matter-of-fact thoroughness as though he were in his own air-drome.

"Come on, Gordon—unscrew these unions for me," he ordered, tossing a tool in Bob's direction.

Bob was feeling, to say the least of it, rather excited. During his three months of service abroad he had not yet come face to face with a German soldier otherwise than disarmed and a prisoner. He had encountered plenty of shell and rifle fire in his flights over the enemy trenches, but that was his nearest approach to the battle-field. Now, as he peered around the meadow, over which the mist still lingered, he half expected to see a crowd of armed Prussians bursting at him from among the trees, and his heart beat a most unhero-like tattoo as he turned to the airplane and began unscrewing with nervous haste.

In half an hour Benton had found the trouble and set about remedying it as best he could, but he growled now over his work, and searched his box of spare parts dejectedly. "It will just do," he told Bob as they toiled on with all the speed allowable for a good job. "It ought to get us back to camp safe enough, but unfortunately we can't fly like the crow—not by daylight."

"How do you mean?" asked Bob, straightening his bent back a moment. He was beginning to feel more hopeful, for the work was nearly done, even if not altogether satisfactory, and they were still quite unmolested.

"I mean that we can't start now, as I'd like to, and fly back to camp. They're on the lookout for us, you may be sure. We'd have to dodge and cut around their guns, and you see we can't. I wouldn't risk a single loop with that engine, though for just the straight distance we can chance it. What I mean is this—we've got to wait for darkness, or near it, and then cut back directly over the trenches."

"I see," said Bob, with marked lack of enthusiasm.

Benton grinned. "Doesn't sound very promising to you, does it? Cheer up; if only we can hide here until dark we'll get home safe enough. When this job is done we'll push her further in under the trees. The place seems to be quite deserted. Probably the cow that was pastured here has gone into German stomachs long ago."

Bob nodded agreement, since showing his doubts of their safety would not help matters. He guessed, too, that Benton knew them as well as he. In another hour the engine was repaired to the best of their ability, the airplane pushed under a sheltering fir, and Benton seated on the ground beside it, lighting his pipe.

Bob sat down, too, and wiped the oil from his hands with a wisp of grass. He felt a sudden keen longing for action to put out of his mind the long hours they must spend in hiding, with the expectation every moment of being surprised. He was not blessed with Benton's calm patience. To be in the thick of a fight or engaged on a hazardous piece of work was something he could tackle bravely, but waiting for the unknown was getting on his nerves.

"Benton, I want to take a look around," he said, rising to his feet after a moment. "I'll keep among the trees right near you."

"Well, if you must," Benton acquiesced. "Don't go far. I suppose if the Boches are looking for us they'll find us just the same, hiding or not."

"I won't be gone half an hour," promised Bob, edging his way among the tree-trunks, his face turned toward the north end of the meadow.

The mist still hung about the woodland, and the bark of the trees he touched was wet and clammy. He walked on for about five hundred yards, then stopped to listen. Distant firing was the only sound that broke the silence except for the occasional drip of water from the bare branches of the oaks or the green boughs of the fir trees.

He went on a little further, then stopped again, irresolute. There was nothing to be gained by wandering further, and he might lose his way if the mist closed in again. He certainly could not risk having to shout to Benton for guidance. But he thought disgustedly of the feeble ending to their morning's expedition, with the best to be hoped for a scared retreat to camp after nightfall. The map was safely there by now, but Bob would have given almost anything at that moment to be able to add to the information it contained by some discovery near at hand. The attack of nerves he had suffered after their landing had cleared his mind of its weakness, and now his heart was beating normally and his courage was good. Bob was far from having an envious nature, but his admiration for Benton's exploits had kindled his own ambition, and the chance nearness to the German second-line positions made him fairly ache with longing to do his corps some brilliant service. Yet rack his brains as he might he could not discover any way toward the accomplishment of his desire. While he stood wishing, a footstep sounded close beside him.

Bob stopped breathing, frozen to the spot. Then he began slowly backing away, but the unknown's feet had passed from the soft moss to a crackling stick very near at hand and only a shaggy fir tree separated him from Bob's view.

Bob was keyed up at that moment to expect no less than Von Hindenburg himself, and the relief was almost overwhelming when a little old man in a blue peasant's blouse stepped into sight, carrying a pail of water. He nearly dropped it when he came face to face with Bob, and stopped mouth open and eyes staring. Bob was almost as much overcome himself at the encounter with even this simple old countryman, and it was the latter who brought his pail carefully to the ground and first spoke.

"Anglais?" he asked, his voice quavering with astonishment, and his eyes wandering all over Bob as though puzzled beyond words at his presence.

Bob shook his head, regaining his composure a little, "Americain."

"Ah!" cried the little Frenchman, his face lighting up in answer to the word, "Americain!" Then in a sudden burst of joyful enthusiasm he cried with a smile that brought out a hundred wrinkles in his thin old face, "Soyez le bienvenu!"

"Merci!" responded Bob, warming to the friendly greeting, and he held out his hand to the old man, who shook it timidly. Then he burst into a sudden volley of words, gesticulating wildly with his arms as he spoke and, so far as Bob could understand, inquiring how on earth he had got there, since evidently the Germans still held their positions firmly.

Bob heartily wished he had taken his West Point French more seriously as he strained his ears, unused to any such fluency. But he summoned his wits and managed to understand somehow and to answer at least intelligibly.

"I and my fellow-officer were forced to come down behind the German lines," he explained. "We are hiding until dark, when we can get away." As he struggled with his French Bob felt uneasy enough at having revealed himself, though looking at the peasant's honest open face beaming with friendliness he could not feel that he had exposed himself and Benton to any imminent danger of betrayal. But while he talked another thought occurred to him.

"Have you seen the new forts beyond the village?" he asked. "Will you tell me how far they go? Perhaps you may help the Allies to victory."

The old man scratched his cheek thoughtfully and finally shook his head. "I can tell only what I have guessed, Monsieur, for I do not go near the fortifications, nor even to the village, often. I feel safer here," he added, nodding his head toward the cottage that Bob had noticed buried in the trees. "It is almost a ruin now," he said sadly, "but the Boches seldom come there."

"Well, what have you guessed?" urged Bob eagerly.

"That the forts run far above the town. They have set guards all through the woods to the north to keep the townfolk from wandering there. Beyond that," he shrugged his old shoulders dejectedly, "I do not know."

Bob's brain began to seethe with a sudden determination. Before he had stopped to think whether it had wisdom in it—and not having Lucy on hand to urge caution—he said impulsively:

"I want to see them if I can. Could you—will you lend me those clothes you wear while I go quickly into the village and return? I will pay you well for them." As he spoke he drew from the pocket inside his coat some pieces of silver.

The old peasant stared again, then his blue eyes softened. "I will lend them to you gladly," he said, drawing back from the offering with a friendly smile.

"I know," urged Bob, following him, "but I have money and you have none. Take this for friendship's sake, at least," he said, as nearly as his French could frame the words.

The old man hesitated no longer, but took the money with a grateful look and a sigh of wonder at the few franc pieces in his hand.

"Many thanks, Monsieur l'Americain," he nodded. "Will you wait here until I bring the clothes, or will you come with me to my house?"

Bob thought swiftly of Benton, with whom he must certainly have a word before he started out on what the older man would be likely to call a wild goose chase. Again he felt the risk of so implicitly trusting a simple old fellow who might presumably be frightened into a betrayal, but his confidence somehow remained unshaken. The man must not be led into his danger either. He thought hard.

"I'll meet you near your house, so you need not come back so far. Can you think of a place?"

"Yes," said the old man after a moment; "my little shed where I cut wood is at the edge of the thicket. You have only to walk on a quarter of a mile from here to come to it."

"But how about the Boches? Could they not see me?"

"No—no. There are none near here. They have little reason for coming. You are safe enough. But," he added, a sudden alarm springing into his mild eyes, "when you put on these clothes," he touched his faded blouse, "you are a spy, Monsieur. Have you forgotten that?"

"No," said Bob calmly, although to tell the truth he disliked to hear the word. "I'll risk that. No one knows me here. Say in a quarter of an hour, then, I'll meet you at your wood-shed." He smiled good-bye to the little figure stooping again over the pail, and turned back through the trees with a great excitement quickening his pulses, though his determination had been so calmly taken.

Benton was still sitting beside his airplane, only now he leaned forward in an attitude of expectancy when Bob's cautious footstep sounded in the wood. At sight of him he settled back again, inquiring with mild mockery, "Well, did you persuade the Germans to confide anything to you? Wish you'd ask them where that new road is they've camouflaged out of sight. Tell 'em we've spent a week looking for it."

"Didn't see any," said Bob, refusing to be teased. "Look here, Benton, what I did see was a French peasant who was no end friendly, and whose clothes I borrowed to go on a little tour of inspection in the village."

"What! In the village—in the fellow's clothes?" exclaimed Benton, staring. "You must be just plain ass, Gordon."

Bob laughed. "No, I'm not. Would you think so if I learned what we want to know about the block-houses before it's dark enough to start? All this worry and danger would have amounted to something then. I sure want to find out a little of their scheme."

Benton frowned at the big tree in front of him. "You know what you'll get if you are caught—out of uniform?"

"But I'm not exactly well-known in that village. I'm no familiar figure like yourself. There haven't been any pictures of me in the papers. Besides, I won't be gone more than an hour or two. I can't see any great risk in it, and, Benton, think of what I may learn!"

"I know it, and I wouldn't thank any man who kept me from doing a smart bit of work. But look here, even if you are not suspected you might be detained as being of military age. How would you like to be sent into Germany as a factory hand?"

"I can easily pass for seventeen—the class France had not called out when Petit-Bois was taken. There are lots of those fellows around, and it isn't likely they'd choose me to kidnap during a single hour."

"Well, go ahead, Gordon, but not with my approval. It's a nasty business."

"I feel sure I'll come out all right," said Bob, a courageous confidence growing in him as he spoke. "Just wish me luck and I'll bet we'll meet again before it's time to go."

"I wish you the best of luck, old man," said Benton, rising to his feet and shaking Bob warmly by the hand. "I'll wait for you until dark. I can't stay longer."

"That's long enough," said Bob, and with a final hand-clasp he retraced his venturesome steps into the wood.