"He has gone down to the village," replied Le Blanc, vigorously
shaking the pan of sizzling potatoes.

"He seems to spend a lot of time down there lately," remarked Frank.

"I'd rather see him about the aerodome," put in Harry; "we don't want
everybody to know all the details of our trials."

"That's so," assented his brother, "I'll speak to him about it when he
comes in to-night."

The two lads fell to with keen appetites on their supper, which was
served on tin plates and washed down with coffee out of tin mugs. Not
a very aristocratic service, but the boys rather liked roughing it
than otherwise, and you may be sure that the "dinner set" off which
they ate did not engross a fraction of their attention. The meal
disposed of, Le Blanc and the boys fixed up the folding camp cots and
spread their blankets. There was still no sign of Sanborn. Frank was
still struggling to keep awake in order to read the man a sharp
lecture when he returned when drowsiness overcame him and he dropped
off to sleep.

It was an hour later, and not far from midnight, when two dark figures
crossed the deserted aviation field and threaded their way among the
various aerodromes. They paused in front of the one in which the boys
were asleep. Had the lads been onlookers they would have seen that one
of the men was Sanborn, the new machinist, and the other was Malvoise,
the driver of the sable Buzzard.

"You won't lose your nerve?" said the Frenchman.