Major Phelps told him about the eight lads, borrowing, perhaps, some of Grace Corwin’s enthusiasm for the moment, and the colonel was favorably impressed from the start with what he called “a mighty fine spirit.”  He thumped his fist on the table at which he sat when the major told him of the boys and their hopes, and said explosively: 

“Wish there were more like them in every town out here.  We are too far from the actual scene of war.  Some people who are a lot older and who should have a lot more realization of what we need and must have before this war is over might take a good lesson from such youngsters.  I would like to see them.”

That settled it.  When the colonel took a thing up he adopted it absolutely.  In a day or so he would be talking of the little band of Brighton boys as if the original project had been his from the very start.  “Boy aviation corps?  Why not.  Good for them.  Can find them plenty to do.  When they get to the right size we can put ’em in the service.  Why not?  Good to start young.  Of course it is.  Splendid idea.  Must be good stuff in ’em.  Of course there is.  Send ’em to me.  Why not?”

Thus, before the boys were brought under the colonel’s eye he had really talked himself into an acceptance of the major’s idea.  The morning he saw them, a little group of very eager and anxious faces—–­bright, intelligent, fine faces they were, too—–­he said without delay:  “I have a use for you boys.  I have thought of something for you to do.  Get some sort of rig so I can tell you when I see you, and come to me again and I will set you at work.”

Not long after, vacation time had come, and with it the new uniforms, in neat, unpretentious khaki.  Garbed in their new feathers and “all their war paint,” as Mr. Mann called it, they reported at the airdrome main gate just as the first big wooden crate came past on a giant truck.  Inside that case, every boy of them knew, was the first flying machine to reach the new grounds.  They felt it an omen.

A few minutes later they were in the austere presence of Colonel Marker, who was frankly pleased with their soldierly appearance and the quiet common-sense of their uniforms, which bore no fancy additions of any sort.

Grace Corwin had seen to that, though more than one furtive suggestion from one boy or another had to be overruled.  Bob Haines thought the letters “B.B.” on the shoulders would vastly help the effect.  Crossed flags on the right sleeve would have suited Dicky Mann better.  Fat Benson’s voice was raised for brass buttons.  Jimmy Hill’s pretensions ran to a gilt aeroplane propellor for the front of each soft khaki hat.  But Grace was firm.  “No folderols,” was her dictum.  They were banded together for work, not for show.  Let additions come as the fruit of service, if at all.  And she had her way.  Grace usually did.

“Glad to see you, boys.  You will report to the sergeant-major, who will take a list of your names, assign you your duties, and arrange your hours of work.  I am afraid there is no congressional grant from which to reward you for your services by a money payment, but if you do your work well, such as it is, I will keep an eye on you and see if I cannot put you in the way of learning as much as you can about the air service.”