Who are you?"
This last query was instantly replied to from below by the private sign
denoting that the parties below were of such and such squad or
escadrille quartered at Aerodrome No. -.
Buck drew a long breath, then he flashed forth his own number and began
to descend. Nothing more happened until Buck brought his nimble
Nieuport to a smooth standstill a few yards distant from a big biplane
that Bangs at once recognized as Blaine's.
"Well, well!" he exclaimed, dismounting and hurrying across the
intervening space. "Isn't this luck - why - why what's the matter,
Lafe? Sick?"
But Blaine was only sick at heart. Already be had taken Stanley out of
the observer's manhole, had laid the lad down, pillowing his head on a
blanket, and was bending low, massaging Stanley's immobile limbs.
Stanley's face looked deathlike under the flare of Blaine's flashlight.
In an instant Buck understood. Stanley had been wounded, perhaps
mortally, during the course of the night raid. Blaine, being unable to
keep on his course longer owing to the gradual draining of petrol from
the tank as the engines consumed the heat, had managed to descend to
this retired place.
With not more than a word or two of explanation, Buck also set to, and
both lads did their best to revive Stanley, who had fallen again into
unconsciousness. The deadly swoon had been strengthened by Stanley's
effort to put the last rack of bombs fully in place during the train
bombardment, as we have already seen.
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