Algy Lacey, of 266 Squadron, Maranique, was returning from a routine morning patrol with the rest of his Flight when the engine of his Camel began to give trouble. A momentary frown crossed his brow as he dropped behind the others; then he looked down, and saw that he was nearing the aerodrome of the neighbouring squadron, No. 287. His face cleared. Cutting the engine altogether, he glided down on to the Tarmac, making a clean, if unspectacular, landing.

To his surprise, no one came out to greet him, although they must have seen the Camel land; he was just about to get down from the cockpit to investigate when a voice called urgently from outside the sheds,

"Stay where you are!"

Algy stopped, looking round. "What's going on?" he demanded.

"Don't get out of the cockpit, whatever you do."

"All right," protested Algy, who by this time had identified the speaker as Parker, one of 287's pilots. "I'm not moving. It's a nice friendly welcome you give people round here, though, I must say. What's the big idea?"

Parker advanced part way towards him, then stopped. "We're in quarantine," he called.

"You're what? What for?"

"Wilkinson- Wilks has got German measles."

Algy laughed. "He must have been spending too much time on the wrong side of the Lines." His face became serious, however, as he realised it was not just an elaborate leg-pull. "You're being serious?"

"Yes."

"Is he all right?"

"As a matter of fact, he's hopping mad. Colonel Raymond was here from Wing this morning; there's a balloon over at Duneville he wants taking down..."

"Not that blasted sausage again," said Algy disgustedly.

"There's a prize for whoever manages to keep it on the ground for the next two days. Now Wilks is grounded, and I've never seen him in such a foul mood. He's convinced your Squadron's going to get it."

"We probably will," grinned Algy. "I hadn't heard anything about it before I came out this morning, though. Which reminds me; I can't sit here for ever. You'll have to let me out to go home; my engine's bust. Any chance of a lift?"

"I've told you, we're not allowed near anybody."

"I'll risk it," said Algy firmly. "I'm not foot-slogging all the way back."

"You might; we won't. You didn't hear the M.O. on the subject," retorted Parker. "You won't find a lift here. I'll ring up your lot and let them know you're coming, if you like."

"Thanks very much," returned Algy in disgruntled tones. "I'll do as much for you some day. I suppose I am allowed to walk off the premises?"

"Oh, yes. As long as you don't touch anything."

"I wouldn't dream of it. Never know where your lot have been at the best of times." With which insult, Algy jumped down from his Camel and began to stroll across the aerodrome without giving Parker a chance to reply.

By the time he reached his own squadron's aerodrome, Algy was hot, dusty and dishevelled. He had managed to hitch a ride in a farmer's cart for part of the journey, but it had been mostly made on foot; so his first thought on reaching home was to head straight for the officers' mess and get himself a drink.

The other occupants of the mess looked up as he came in.

"So here you are!" exclaimed Biggles cheerfully. "We wondered when you were going to turn up."

Algy glared. "You knew I was on my way, then? I notice none of you thought of coming out to fetch me."

Biggles removed his feet from the chair he had been resting them on and pushed it across to Algy, then got up to pour him a cup of tea. "We would have done, but the tender burst its tyre; and by the time it was changed... well, you were nearly here," he said apologetically. "Couldn't Wilks's lot have brought you over? Parker rang and said you'd crash-landed at their aerodrome."

"I suppose he didn't tell you they're in quarantine and not allowed out?" growled Algy.

"How did you get out, then?" demanded Mahoney, shifting his chair noticeably further from Algy's. "And how do we know you haven't brought anything back with you?"

"Don't be an ass," said Algy, taking his tea from Biggles. "I wasn't there long enough." Changing the subject, as Biggles sat back down, he added, "Have any of you heard about this balloon?"

"The Duneville one? Colonel Raymond called in to tell us about it earlier. There's four days' Paris leave for whoever manages to keep it on the carpet for the next two days; but I reminded him that was more likely Wilks's scene than mine..."

"It isn't now," interrupted Algy.

"What?"

"Wilks is the one who's put 287 in quarantine. He's grounded; German measles. And he's as sore as a bear, apparently, because he thinks we're going to get one over on him and get the sausage before he does."

"Poor old Wilks," said Biggles, with genuine sympathy. "He must be feeling rotten about it; maybe we should send him something to cheer him up..." He paused mid-sentence as the sound of an aero engine cut the air above them.

"One of ours," remarked Mahoney. He went to the window and looked out. "An S.E. 5."

Biggles and Algy joined him.

"That looks like one of 287's machines," observed Algy. "It is..." They stared, dumbfounded, as the machine swept low over the aerodrome; then, as the pilot pitched something out of his cockpit, they ran outside for a closer look. By the time they got there the S.E. 5 was gone again; obviously its pilot had not been inclined to waste time.

"Well! What was all that about?" queried Biggles in amazement.

"Looks like a message," replied Algy doubtfully. Biggles started forward to pick it up; but Mahoney called him back.

"Hey! Wait a minute; what if it's infectious? The Old Man won't be too pleased if we all start coming out in spots."

"Oh, don't talk rot," retorted Biggles. "What's a bit of paper going to do to me?" Lifting up the message bag from where it lay, he took out the contents and began to read, his expression becoming more and more incredulous as he did so.

"What's it say, then?" demanded the others impatiently.

"I don't know about German measles, but Wilks certainly seems to be suffering from softening of the brain," said Biggles at last. "He seems to think we should leave that balloon- his balloon, he says- severely alone for as long as he's grounded; it obviously hasn't occurred to him that the brass-hats might have a thing or two to say if we did! If he's out of things, that's his bad luck; but I don't see how he thinks he's going to order us about because of it! Leave it alone- his balloon! I'll do nothing of the sort." Biggles stared at the note for a moment or two; then a slow smile spread across his face. "In fact, I'll show him just where he stands."

Taking Wilks's note inside, he threw it on the fire, to be on the safe side; then he turned to Algy.

"Find me a bit of paper and a pen, will you? I've got a message to write."

Algy obligingly hurried off, to return a few minutes later with the required articles.

"What are you going to write?" he asked curiously.

"Wait and see." Biggles sat down at the table and set to work; five minutes later, he leant back in his chair and called the others back over. "What do you think of that?"

Leaning over his shoulder, Algy and Mahoney read what he had written.

We regret that Captain Wilkinson is unable to attend to his flying duties, but we see no reason for his indisposition to stop us attending to ours. Our most sincere wishes for the speedy return of his good health, and we hope to present him with a piece of German sausage as a getting-well present at the earliest opportunity.

Signed on behalf of the officers of Squadron No. 266,

J.C. Bigglesworth (Capt.).

Algy looked at the letter critically. "Well, if Wilks can decipher that scrawl, it should make him sit up," he said.

"I'll have you know that's my best handwriting," retorted Biggles indignantly. "Unless you think you can do any better?"

"No, carry on," replied Algy hurriedly. "Who's going to deliver it?"

"I will," said Biggles. "And then I'd better go and have a look at the scenery round Duneville; I'd hate not to be able to deliver Wilks's present after I've promised him one."

"Do you really mean you're going to try and get a souvenir off that gasbag?"

"I'm going to do more than try, I hope."

Mahoney shook his head sadly. "Cracked," he announced. "Well, it was nice knowing you."

Biggles ignored him. "I'll think of something," he said confidently. "You just wait and see."

"We know you'll think of something," put in Algy. "That's what we're afraid of. Are you sure you don't want company on this sightseeing trip of yours?"

"No, thanks. I'm only popping over for a look at the thing. I don't say I don't want a hand when it comes to getting rid of it, but there's no use in trying anything until we know what we're up against." Biggles gathered up his message from the table, and went to collect his flying kit before any further argument could be made.

Not long afterwards, the sound of a Camel's engine warming up could be heard outside. Algy and Mahoney hurried out just in time to see Biggles taking off. They looked at each other for a moment or two, before Mahoney shrugged his shoulders.

"There's no use in going after him now," he said. "He won't be satisfied until he's got that balloon; wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't come back with the whole thing, basket and all, and dump it on 287's aerodrome."

"But..." began Algy.

"You wouldn't catch him anyway. And he's only gone for a look. As long as that's all he does he should come back in one piece."

"As long as that's all he does," repeated Algy, staring after the departed Camel. "Yes."