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the aerodrome was short of machines and instructors, and he had to wait a couple of weeks before he could get into the air a second time.

he worked sedulously to gather knowledge during that waiting interval, and his first real lesson found him a very alert and ready pupil. this time the dual control was at his disposal, and for a straight or so the pilot left things to him altogether. came half a dozen other lessons, and then peter found himself sitting alone in a machine outside the great sheds, watched closely by a knot of friendly rivals, and, for the first time on his own account, conducting that duologue he had heard now so often on other lips. “switch off.”... “suck in.” “contact!”

he started across the ground. his first sensations bordered on panic. hitherto the machines he had flown in had been just machines; now this one, this one was an animal; it started out across the aerodrome like a demented ostrich, swerving wildly and trying to turn round. always before this, the other man had done the taxi business on the ground. it had never occurred to peter that it involved any difficulty. peter’s heart nearly failed him in that opening twenty seconds; he was convinced he was going to be killed; and then he determined to get up at any cost. at any rate he wouldn’t smash on the ground. he let out the accelerator, touched his controls, and behold he was up—he was up! instantly the machine ceased to resemble a floundering ostrich, and became a steady and dignified carinate, swaying only slightly from wing to wing. up he went over the hedges, over the trees, beyond, above the familiar field of cows. the moment of panic passed, and peter was himself again.

he had got right outside the aerodrome and he had to 483bank and bring her round. already he had done that successfully a number of times with an instructor to take care of him. he did it successfully now. his confidence grew. back he buzzed and droned, a hundred feet over the aerodrome. he made three complete circuits, rose outside the aerodrome and came down, making a good landing. he was instantly smitten with the intensest regret that he had not made eight or nine circuits. it was a mere hop. any man of spirit would have gone on. there were four hours of daylight yet. he might have gone up; he might have tried a spiral.... damn!

but the blue eyes of the master approved him.

“couldn’t have made a better landing, stubland,” said the master. “try again tomorrow. follow it up close. short and frequent doses. that’s the way.”

peter had made another stage on his way to france.

came other solo flights, and flights on different types of machines, and then a day of glory and disobedience when, three thousand feet above the chimneys of a decent farmhouse, peter looped the loop twice. he had learnt by that time what it was to side-slip, and what air pockets can do to the unwary. he had learnt the bitter consequences of coming down with the engine going strong. he had had a smash through that all too common mistake, but not a bad smash; a few struts and wires of the left wing were all that had gone. a hedge and a willow tree had stopped him. he had had a forced landing in a field of cabbages through engine stoppage, and half an hour in a snowstorm when he had had doubts in an upward eddy whether he might not be flying upside down. that had been a nasty experience—his worst. he had several times taken his hands off the controls and let the old bus look after herself, so badly were the snowflakes spinning about in his mind. he dreamt a lot about flying, and few of his dreams were pleasant dreams. and then this fantastic old world of ours, which had so suddenly diverted his education to these things, and taught him to fly with a haste and intensity it had never put into any teaching before, decided that he was ripe for the air war, and packed him off to france....

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