Biggles by John Pearson Page B

agents into Belgium. Both trips went off perfectly, and the excitement helped to keep the Bigglesworth adrenalin flowing. These operations also helped keep Biggles in the Colonel’s eye. He even dined with him one night, and for the first time Biggles found that that cold strange man was almost human.
    â€˜Happy, Bigglesworth?’ he asked, as he swirled his pale gold vintage brandy in a glass the size of a small goldfish bowl.
    Biggles shrugged his shoulders.
    â€˜Life gets a little dull at times,’ he said.
    â€˜Does it indeed?’ the Colonel laughed. ‘We’ll soon change that for you. Ever thought of working for Intelligence?’
    Biggles was instantly on his guard.
    â€˜Not if it means the end of flying,’ he said quickly.
    â€˜Good Lord, no! That’s the last thing we would want, but I’d like to think that we could call upon you for, shall we say, some more demanding operations if the need arose.’
    â€˜I’d enjoy that, sir,’ said Biggles.
    â€˜Splendid,’ said the Colonel.
    But there was no immediate result of that evening’s conversation. Christmas came, all operations ceased, and then the routine of the ordinary patrols continued.
    Christmas was a trying time for Biggles. He never had enjoyed it as a festival. He disliked Christmas pudding, and the carols and the horseplay in the Mess embarrassed him. There was a parcel from his mother, which contained cigars, a novel by Ouida and two sets of woollen underwear. This was bad enough, but worse still was the Christmas letter he received from Aunt Priscilla. His cousin Algernon, she wrote, had got his transfer to the Flying Corps and had finished his basic training. He was already on his way to France, and she had pulled strings with the Air Board to have him sent to 266.
    â€˜The boy has always looked up to you,’ she wrote, ‘and I know that you will do your best to keep an eye on him. He’s very young, and I would like to think that you will be an elder brother to him.’
    Major Mullen roared with laughter at the news.
    â€˜Elder brother! That’s a good one, James my boy!’
    â€˜But sir,’ said Biggles, ‘you must do something about it. The boy’s a frightful weed, a real mother’s darling. He’s called Algernon Montgomery — and, by God, he looks like it!’
    â€˜Well, he can’t help what he’s called, poor fellow, and if he’s as you say, he clearly does need looking after. I think you’d better have him in your flight.’
    â€˜My what?’ said Biggles, suddenly aghast.
    â€˜James, remember you were young yourself once, and they say that blood is thicker than water.’
    â€˜Algy’s isn’t,’ Biggles answered grimly, and stormed out of the Mess.
    The following afternoon Algernon arrived. Biggles himself had just returned from a sortie over no-man’s-land. For the third day running he had missed a German Halberstadt reconnaissance plane he had been after, and as he stumped across the tarmac in his flying gear, he was not in the best of tempers. A truck had drawn up beside the hangars arid a lanky, freckled youth with overlong fair hair was strolling cheerfully towards him, peaked cap worn jauntily on the back of his head.
    â€˜Biggles!’ he shouted. ‘Wonderful to see you. The Mater told me you’d be here.’
    Biggles stopped, and eyed him with disfavour.
    â€˜Lieutenant Lacey, I presume,’ he said.
    â€˜Of course,’ the youth replied, but Biggles cut him short.
    â€˜My name is Captain Bigglesworth,’ he said icily. ‘I am your Flight Commander. Get your kit to your room, report your arrival to the Adjutant, and meet me in the Mess in twenty minutes’ time. I want a word with you.’
    It was unusual for Biggles to pull rank on a younger flier in this way, but he had been thoroughly put out by having his young cousin wished upon him by his dominating