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Achilles—Did you shave this morning, Cadet? Mercury—Yes, Sir. Achilles—What with, Cadet? Mercury—Issue, Sir. Achilles—Carry on, Cadet.

, Julian, number, late a Flying Cadet, Umptieth Squadron, Air Service, known as "One Wing" by the other embryonic aces of his flight, regarded the world with a yellow and disgruntled eye. He suffered the same jaundice that many a more booted one than he did, from Flight Commanders through Generals to the ambrosial single-barred (not to mention that inexplicable beast of the field which the French so beautifully call an aspiring aviator); they had stopped the war on him.

So he sat in a smoldering of disgusted sorrow, not even enjoying his Pullman prerogatives, spinning on his thumb his hat with its accursed white band.

"Had your nose in the wind, hey, buddy?" said Yaphank, going home and smelling to high heaven of bad whisky.

"Ah, go to hell," he returned sourly and Yaphank doffed his tortured hat.

"Why, sure, General—or should I of said Lootenant? Excuse me, madam. I got gassed doing k.p. and my sight