DKSOCMJS CON VI I.M\ KH
i.iivi: >\ oi>M)t:i) unto I
The eighth seems to utter as it approaches, tips and dives fitfully. Field glasses are leveled at him. "He's had his tail piece carried away," cries one. "It's Thaw," says another, "and there's something wrong with his propeller." Alternately rearing, diving, and sliding on its wing, the machine comes down convulsively like a wounded bird.
He's going to break a bit of wood, and it's a French soldier, expressing it characteristic aviation language—the prospect of a smash. The machine rears again after a dive which took a dangerously close to the earth, veers around abruptly against the windhumps along the ground a hundred yards and stops. "Thaw's one of the few pilots who could bring home a busted machine like that," said a soldier.
"Kut where's Chapman?" All the big biplanes at e now in, and pilots and soldiers are all searching the sky anxiously. Then a cry comes from the field. A speck has just emerged from the clouds. Chapman, driven out of his course by the shelling is which Thaw's propeller was damaged, had daily found his way, and lands now with the last drop of gasoline in his reservoir.
"The disgusting thing about it," said Thaw, while the mechanics were taking an inventory of the damage, "was that..."  The fellows over there across the line wouldn't come out to the right. GREAT BRITAIN SCORED. 