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discussed their practice for a few minutes, standing crouched and cramped beside the pilot’s seat. Then they got out of the machine down on to the concrete beneath the nose, slipped off their harness, and stretched cramped limbs. The corporal fitter went into a huddle with Sergeant Pilot Franckover the engine temperatures and pressures. Marshall turned to the fuselage and had another look at the patches. Sergeant Phillips walked up and joined him.
    “Nice and tight,” the sergeant said. “I’ll get a drop of paint this afternoon.”
    The pilot nodded. “When you spoke of your young lady, that saw me with that fish—did you say she was a signaller?”
    “Telephonist,” the other said. “Works on the board all day.”
    “Does she come under that Section Officer Robertson?”
    “That’s right. A new Section Officer with black hair.”
    Marshall said carefully: “I knew a Flying Officer called Robertson at my last station, who had a sister called Sheila who was a W.A.A.F. Section Officer. I was wondering if this was her. Ask your young lady if she knows her Christian name, will you?” He spoke with elaborate carelessness that did not deceive the sergeant for one moment.
    Phillips said: “Oh aye, I’ll find that out for you.”
    The pilot said: “Thanks. It was just an idea I had.” He left the machine and, carrying his parachute and harness, walked down to the control office.
    Half an hour later he was in the mess with a pint of beer. The ante-room gradually filled before lunch. The Wing Commander came in, and Marshall crossed the room to him, beer can in hand.
    “May I go off the station at four o’clock to-morrow morning, sir?” he said. “I’ll be back before breakfast.”
    “What for?”
    Marshall grinned. “I met a chap in the ‘Black Horse’ last night who said he’d take me to see a fox. A fox and a badger, both within a quarter of an hour. I’ve got a bet on that he can’t.”
    The Squadron Leader (Admin.), a grey-haired man called Chesterton with wings from the last war, laughed sharply. “Lady into fox?” he said.
    The pilot flushed a little. “No, sir. Honest-to-god fox—beast what smells.” There was general laughter in the group.
    The C.O. said: “Smell him when he comes back, Chesterton; let me know if it’s fox or Coty.”
    The laugh grew loud. Section Officer Robertson turned to see what it was all about. She saw Marshall talking to the Wing Commander in the centre of a laughing group. She thought that it was something to do with the pike, the pike that she wasto have a bit of for her lunch. She drew near, smiling at their mirth without understanding it, wanting to know what was going on.
    The C.O. said: “A badger and a fox? Where are you going for that?”
    “I don’t know—somewhere in the woods. It’s got to be before dawn. I said I’d meet him in Hartley at four o’clock—if that’s all right with you, sir.”
    The Squadron Leader said: “I don’t believe there are any badgers here. Plenty of foxes. But it’s too close to London for a badger.”
    The C.O. said: “It’s all right with me. Better go to bed early, or else get in some sleep to-morrow. We may be on the job to-morrow night.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    Chesterton said: “I’ll have the guard warned that you’ll be going out.”
    The pilot turned away, and found himself face to face with Miss Robertson. She said: “Did you say you were going to see a
badger?
” There was a quality of breathless interest in her voice.
    Marshall grinned. “I don’t know,” he said. “Chap in the ‘Black Horse’ said he’d show me a badger and a fox both within a quarter of an hour, and I bet him ten bob that he couldn’t.”
    “They don’t come out in daylight, do they? Badgers, I mean.”
    “I don’t think so. I think they stooge around all night.”
    “Where are you going for it?”
    The pilot glanced down at her face turned up to his. In one fleeting moment in the crowded ante-room he saw the