Finally an airplane
descended in graceful spirals, landing softly and rolling along close to
the railings.
"_Guynemer!_"
But the pilot, unconscious of the worshiping crowd, took off his helmet,
disclosed a frowning face, and began discontentedly to examine his gun.
Twice that day it had jammed, saving two Germans. Guynemer was like the
painters of old who, by grinding their colors themselves, insured the
duration of their works. He resented not being able to make all his
weapons himself, his engine, his Vickers, and his bullets. At length he
seemed willing to leave his machine, and pulled off his heavy war
accouterment, which revealed a tall, flexible young man. As he rapidly
approached his tent, his every motion watched by the onlookers, a
private turned on him a small camera, with a beseeching--
"You'll permit me, _mon capitaine_?"
"Yes, but quick."
He was cross and impatient, and as he stopped he noticed all the eyes of
the women watching him ecstatically. He made a despairing gesture. His
frown deepened, his figure stiffened, and the snapshot was another
failure.
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