That was their beginning.  They saluted, every one, turned smartly and filed out.  Bob Haines, the tallest of the group and the acknowledged leader, was the only one to answer the colonel.  Bob said, “Thank you, sir,” as he saluted.  They looked so strong and full of life and hope that the tears welled to the colonel’s eyes as he watched them tramp out of his room.  He had seen much war, had the colonel.  “It’s a shame that such lads will have to pay the great price, many of ’em,” he sighed, “before the Hun is brought to his knees.  But it’s a fine thing to be a boy.”  The colonel rose stiffly and sighed.  “I would give a lot to be in their shoes, with all the hardship and horror that may lie in front of them if this war keeps on long enough,” he mused to himself.  “It’s a fine thing to be a boy.”

Out went the eight Brighton boys to the sergeant-major, their work begun.  They too felt it a fine thing to be boys, though their feeling was just unconscious, natural, effervescent—–­the sparkle of the real wine of youth and health and clean, brave spirit.

CHAPTER II

FIRST STEPS

A month after the Brighton boys had commenced their duties at the airdrome at the old Frisbie place, they would have been missed by more than one person about the camp if they had failed to put in an appearance some morning.  It was astonishing to see how much routine work could pile up around the headquarters’ offices.

The machines arrived in some numbers.  One by one they were unpacked from their great crates and set up, then wheeled into their respective places in the broad hangars which had been built to house them.

The first one of the Brighton boys to settle himself into a regular billet was Fat Benson.  He had been watching the uncrating of box of spare engine parts one afternoon when no specific job claimed him for the moment, and fell into conversation with the short, stocky sergeant who was to be the store keeper.  The sergeant was tired and worried.

He had counted a consignment of sparking plugs twice and obtained a different total each time.  Worse, neither of his totals tallied with the figures on the consignment sheet.  He was fast losing his temper.

Fat was of most placid, unruffled temperament.  He saw that trouble was toward, and was about to walk away and avoid proximity to the coming storm when he thought:  “This may be a chance to help.”  He turned and said to the sergeant:  “If you like, I will count those plugs for you while you sort out the spanners from the other crate.”

“Good boy!” at once said the sergeant.  “I have got to a point where those little red pasteboard boxes sort of run together, and I couldn’t count them correctly to save my life.  If you can make them come out to suit this consignment number they have sent with the plugs you will be a real help, I can tell you.”