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“I wonder if it could be the same party?” the officer went on to say. “I was informed his name was Frank Bradford and that he owned up to being an American. My word! but this is remarkable. Tell me, did your brother ever serve his time as an air-pilot, young fellow?” turning to Amos.

“Not before he left home,” returned the boy; “but he was always intensely interested in aeronautics. If a chance ever came up, I’m sure he would have made a mighty good birdman.”

“If this is the same Frank Bradford,” muttered the soldier, shaking his head, “he has already jumped into the front rank of British aviators. They censored his name in the newspaper accounts, but I chanced to hear it from one who had met him on the field. It was after he made that wonderfully daring trip of seventy miles up the Rhine country, dropping bombs on many fortresses by the way, and striking a note of fear into countless thousands of German hearts.”

“Oh, I read that story myself, and was thrilled with it,” cried Amos, excitedly. “Little did I dream it could have been my own brother Frank who was the reckless aviator of the Allies. Wait, I have his picture here with me, taken some years ago; perhaps your friend may have described this man to you so that you could recognize him.”