The first thing Tom did when he and Jack found themselves again on their
feet and the waiting mechanics and hostlers looking after their plane,
was to reach out and seize upon his chum's hand.

"We've got good reason to congratulate ourselves on coming through that
nasty business so well, Jack," he said earnestly. "If you look at our
machine you'll see how near we came a dozen times to cashing in our
checks. They knocked us up pretty well, for a fact."

"I should say they did," admitted Jack, as he examined the various marks
showing where the Hun bullets had punctured different parts of the wings,
or struck the fuselage, narrowly missing both the motor and the partly
protected petrol supply tank.

They lingered around for a full hour, there was so much to talk about as
they gathered in groups and compared experiences, as well as commented on
the possible fate of their fellow aviators who had failed to return.

In spite of the loss incurred, the achievement accomplished was of such a
character as to fill them with pardonable pride. No member of that
historical night raid, whereby the retreat of the Germans was so badly
handicapped by the loss of the big bridge, would ever have cause to blush
for his part in the bold undertaking.

Finally the two chums, finding themselves exhausted and in need of
sleep, broke away from the chattering throng and sought their bunks in
the former Hun dugout. All was now silence around them, the enemy
batteries having ceased sending over even occasional shells; and they
were able to enjoy a few hours of rest undisturbed by having the roof of
their shelter damaged by a chance explosion.