Tam o' the Scoots. Wallace Edgar

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      The angels laffit

      To see this gaillant baird-man die.

      'At lairst! At lairst!' the angels cry,

      'We've ain who'll teach us hoo to fly—

      Thanks be, he's strafit!'"

      "Fine," said Blackie with a smile, "but suppose you're 'strafit' instead?"

      "Pit the wee pome on ma ain wreath," said Tam simply; "'t 'ill be true."

      CHAPTER IV

      THE STRAFING OF MÜLLER

      On the earth, rain was falling from gray and gloomy clouds. Above those clouds the sun shone down from a blue sky upon a billowing mass that bore a resemblance to the uneven surface of a limitless plain of lather. High, but not too high above cloud-level, a big white Albatross circled serenely, its long, untidy wireless aerial dangling.

      The man in the machine with receivers to his ears listened intently for the faint "H D" which was his official number. Messages he caught—mostly in English, for he was above the British lines.

      "Nine—Four.... Nine—four … nine—four," called somebody insistently. That was a "spotter" signaling a correction of range, then.... "Stop where you are.... K L B Q.... Bad light.... Signal to X O 73 last shot.... Repeat your signal .... No.... Bad light.... Sorry—bad light.... Stay where you are...."

      He guessed some, could not follow others. The letter-groups were, of course, code messages indicating the distance shells were bursting from their targets. The apologies were easily explained, for the light was very bad indeed.