Just as they came down, after a
circular spin over the lines, a strange machine, presumably hostile,
appeared far up and far away, but circled off to the south out of target
reach before the balloon gunman could get the range of her and the aim.
On the heels of this a biplane from another aviation field somewhere
down the left wing dropped in quite informally bearing two grease-
stained men to pass the time of day and borrow some gasoline. The
occasion appeared to demand a drink. We all repaired, therefore, to one
of the great canvas houses where the air birds nest night-times and
where the airmen sleep. There we had noggins of white wine all round,
and a pointer dog, which was chained to an officer's trunk, begged me in
plain pointer language to cast off his leash so he might go and stalk
the covey of pheasants that were taking a dust-bath in the open road not
fifty yards away.
The temptation was strong, but our guides said if we meant to get to the
battlefront before lunch it was time, and past time, we got started.
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