You're lamentable. You are less use than an empty tin can, you dowey old cassowary.'
'I suppose that's how your superior officer talks to you?' said Miss Fowler from her chair.
'But Postey doesn't mind,' Wynn replied. 'Do you, Packthread?'
'Why? Was Wynn saying anything? I shall get this right next time you come,' she muttered, and knitted her pale brows again over the diagrams of Taubes, Farmans, and Zeppelins.
In a few weeks the mere land and sea battles which she read to Miss Fowler after breakfast passed her like idle breath. Her heart and her interest were high in the air with Wynn, who had finished 'rolling' (whatever that might be) and had gone on from a 'taxi' to a machine more or less his own. One morning it circled over their very chimneys, alighted on Vegg's Heath, almost outside the garden gate, and Wynn came in, blue with cold, shouting for food. He and she drew Miss Fowler's bath-chair, as they had often done, along the Heath foot-path to look at the biplane. Mary observed that 'it smelt very badly.'
'Postey, I believe you think with your nose,' said Wynn. 'I know you don't with your mind. Now, what type's that?'
'I'll go and get the chart,' said Mary.
'You're hopeless! You haven't the mental capacity of a white mouse,' he cried, and explained the dials and the sockets for bomb-dropping till it was time to mount and ride the wet clouds once more.
'Ah!' said Mary, as the stinking thing flared
