That was a Capital Stroke, Dave

Copyright 1941, by

M. A. Donohue & Company

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

I. Cherry 1

II. Catbirds and Hawk 11

III. Dolls and Nazis 17

IV. Hans Schlitz 25

V. The young Lord 34

VI. Lady Spies 44

VII. Enemy Sighted 57

VIII. Roll Out the Barrel 67

IX. The Hideout 80

X. First Blood 91

XI. Cobbler or Spy? 105

XII. “The House Is Gone” 113

XIII. Lull Before the Storm 123

XIV. A Dungeon Night 131

XV. Until the Very End 144

XVI. Fiddlin’ Johnny 152

XVII. Playing War 166

XVIII. Dave’s Strange Craft 175

XIX. Thrilling Sky Drama 182

XX. Dave Comes Marching Home 188

XXI. The Lark Defends His Home Town 194

XXII. Roll Out the Barrel 203

XXIII. Victory 213

XXIV. Searchers of the Sea 218

XXV. The Rescue 229

Illustrations

That Was a Capital Stroke, Dave Frontispiece

We Do Have a Spy 49

Everybody Sing 77

Tat-tat-tat—Down Goes Hun 99

Only Three Walls Remained 117

The Dog Had Found the Fugitive 135

Shots Tore Into His Right Wing 161

Alice—Alice—I Know Your Voice 233

Chapter I

Cherry

It was one of those rare autumn days in England.
The sky was blue as blue. The trees cast dark shadows
across the hillside. The sheep wandered contentedly
along the slope. To Cherry Ramsey, for
one full moment it seemed that nothing could possibly
be wrong with the world.

Then with a sudden light spring she shot from
her sunny corner to scan the sky and to exclaim
softly to the collie at her feet:

“Flash old boy, it’s an airplane. Perhaps it’s a
bomb-bomber.” That last word always choked her.
How she hated those Nazi marauders! No, all was
not right with the world! Perhaps it never would be
again for a long, long time!

“But Flash old boy,” there was hot fire in her
voice, “we must all do our best and trust God.
That’s what mother always says, and she’s nearly
always right.”

Flash, the splendid golden collie, stood up, appeared
to listen, then whined as if he had truly understood.
And who will say he did not?

For one more full moment the scene remained
just as it had been. In the foreground were low hills
and sheep feeding. Beyond that lay a level field
where two grown youths in their late teens bent
over their task of harvesting Brussels sprouts. Beyond
all this were trees and barns—a farm home,—Cherry’s
own home.

As she stood there, lips parted, ears straining in
their attempt to build up a mental picture of the
rapidly approaching airplane, she saw the two boys
straighten up, then gaze skyward.

“Ah! They hear it!” she whispered. Then she
tried with a sudden flash of the imagination to picture
the thoughts running through the minds at that
moment of those strangely different boys. The
plane proved to be a German bomber.

Then suddenly her heart stood still. The plane
had come zooming out from behind the nearby
hills, and in a flash she had caught sight of the hated
cross on the right of the plane, the swastika on its
tail.

At that same instant the taller of the two boys
turned to his companion to say:

“I suppose that’s what you call a bomber?” His
was the sharp, brisk accent of a Midwest American.

“Not precisely that,” was the slow drawling reply
of his typically English companion. “It’s a
Messerschmitt 110, I’d say. They do use them for
daylight bombing. But that plane is really a fighter.
The best the Jerries have. If our boys go after one
of them when it flies over to do a little bombing, it
lays eggs and puts off at a fearful rate, or turns in
for a scrap.

“And I say!” his voice rose, “There’ll be a scrap!
There’s a Spitfire after her. Good old Spitfire! Go
after ’em, old boy! Here we are, with a ringside
seat!” He dropped back to take his place on a bag
of Brussels sprouts. The tall, dark, curly-haired
American youth stood where he was, watching the
two planes. His eyes were wide with excitement
and wonder. This was but his third day in England.
Until this moment he had seen nothing of the war.
Even now, with the peace of open country all about
him, it did not seem possible that those two silver
ships up there in the sky would really fight an air
duel, that men might come hurtling down from out
the sky to a terrible crushing death.

An exclamation from his companion brought
him back to reality.

“Oh! I say!” came in sharp, rising tones. “There’s
another of our fighters! Now there’ll surely be a
scrap! That Messerschmitt can’t escape both of
them! That,” he said with a sudden intake of
breath, “is one of your American fighters. It’s
called a Tomahawk.”

“Are they good?” Dave asked, his eyes still on
the sky.

“Good!” Brand exploded, “Of course they’re
good! Air cooled engine. Do 350 per hour. And
can they climb! Practically straight up! It’s going
to be grand!” he exclaimed, his eyes glued upon
the spot where the three planes were circling.
“They’ll do that old Messerschmitt in before you
can say Jack Robinson.”

“They should. Two to one,” Dave Barnes, the
other boy spoke slowly, no sarcasm in his voice,
only cool appraisal. He was an American. This was
not his war. For him this was but a ringside seat to
something rather big.

The lips of the English boy, Brandon Ramsey,
drew into a tense white line. This was his war. Perhaps
he knew the men in those one-seated fighters.
He could not be sure of that, but there was an airbase
for fighters not three miles from his home. He
knew nearly all the fliers. As for the enemy plane,
why was it here? To drop bombs on defenseless
villagers, or to spy out targets for some other plane
that carried tons of explosives. Who could say?

“Two to one.” His was not a happy laugh.
“There are three men in that Messerschmitt.
They’re in an armored cabin. Our boys are right
out there in the open.” There was a touch of anger
in his voice.

“I—I’m sorry,” Dave murmured, brushing a hand
before his eyes. “I’ve been in England for so short
a time. Guess I don’t see things your way just yet.”

“That’s all right,” was the prompt and generous
response. Brand gave Dave’s knee a slap. “You’ll
pick it up fast. That is,” he added, “if that Messerschmitt
isn’t still carrying its bombs and if he
doesn’t land one of them right on us.”

“Why would he do that?” The American boy’s
eyes opened wide.

“Lighten his load. Besides, a bullet might strike
a bomb. Then whew! He’d fly into a thousand
pieces. He—”

The English boy stopped suddenly, for at that
instant there came a sput—sput—sput from the sky.

“They’re at it!” Dave’s voice was low and tense.

The burst of fire which was short and sharp had
come from the Spitfire.

“Short, broadside,” Brand explained. “You can’t
do much with a broadside. Other plane’s going too
fast. They’re out of range, just like that. They—

“Look!” he exclaimed in a voice tense with emotion.
“The Tomahawk is going after that plane
from behind! He—

“Nope.” He let loose a low hiss of disgust.

“He’s gone into a power dive.”

It was true. All the planes had been high, perhaps
up 15,000 feet. Now the Messerschmitt slipped into
a dive that took it half the distance to earth. The
American boy was ready to dodge and run for it
when just as suddenly as it had gone into the dive
the Nazi plane came out of it to level off just above
the farm home.

“Look!” Brand gripped his companion’s arm
hard. “He’s dropped a bomb!”

Terror stricken, fascinated, white-hot with
anger, the English boy watched a silver spot against
the dark blue sky go down—down—down.

And on the hillside, far above her home, tall,
slender, beautiful twenty-year old Cherry Ramsey,
with the color gone from her cheeks, also watched
the terrifying missile speed from the sky.

“Where will it strike?” Her alert mind registered
the question her lips did not speak, while her eyes
took in the house, the barn, the out-buildings, the
orchard—every spot dear to her childhood.

And then the silence of the countryside was torn
by a sudden burst of sound that made the very hills
tremble.

For one full moment while the trio on the hillside
kept their places, breathless, expectant, a cloud of
dust and smoke obscured the view.

During this moment Cherry became conscious of
the dog that lay whining at her feet. Bending low,
she patted his sleek head. “Yes, I know it’s terrible,”
she soothed. “You don’t like it. We don’t either.
But we all must endure it for England’s sake.”

As if he understood, the dog nestled silently at
her feet.

The smoke cleared. The girl sighed with relief.
The bomb had fallen in the orchard. A single apple
tree, one of the early pippins, had been uprooted. A
slight loss. The tree was quite old.

And then with a shock it came to her that everything—the
house, the barn, the dovecotes,—all about
the place was old, old and very dear.

Then again her lips parted in sudden fright, for a
second silver spot, larger than the first, had appeared
against the sky. Watching its swift descent, she
grabbed at her painfully beating heart. At first it
seemed that it must fall upon the house. “Alice is
there,” her reeling brain registered the thought.
Then came a sense of relief. The house would be
spared. Then it was to be the barn where two fine
colts were housed that would receive the full force
of the blow.

“No,” she sighed. “Farther up the hill.”

The bomb fell not ten feet from a small square
building. Like a tree, uprooted by the blast, this tiny
house leapt high in air, then collapsing, crashed to
earth. At the same instant dust and smoke concealed
all.

As if struck a blow from behind, the girl leapt
forward, stood there tense, motionless for a period
of seconds, then disregarding the loyal collie whining
at her heels, went dashing down the hill.

The apparently insignificant building had once
been a smoke-house. Perhaps that had been fifty
years before. When Cherry was a child it had been
converted into a playhouse. There, hours on end,
she and her sister Alice had played with their dolls
and at keeping house. They, to be sure had abandoned
both dolls and playhouse long ago. But from
time to time other children had come to live on the
Ramsey Farm. Both playhouse and dolls had been
theirs. At this moment two cute children, Tillie and
Peggy, from the London slums, were staying at the
Ramsey Farm. This old smoke-house was their
favorite haunt. As Cherry sped down the hill allowing
herself not one glance at the brightening sky,
she dared not ask the question that haunted her
terror-stricken mind. “Oh, God!” she whispered,
“It can’t be true!”

Chapter II

Catbirds and Hawk

From the spot where Dave and Brand stood the ancient
playhouse could not be seen. That tragedy
might have befallen some member of their household
they did not so much as dream. Enough that by some
miracle the house and barns had been spared and
that the hated enemy plane, having delivered its
load, was now speeding away.

But not so fast. The speedy British Spitfire had
made a broad circle and was prepared to meet the
enemy head on.

As Brand Ramsey stood stiffly at attention, watching
every move of those fighting planes, his fingers
clenched and unclenched nervously. Not so his
American companion. Standing at ease, smiling a
little, his lips parted, he might have been at a tennis
match.

How often, during his early days on an American
farm this boy, Dave Barnes, had watched a fight between
two catbirds and a hawk. How insignificant
the catbirds had appeared, how terrifying, with
curved beak and needle-like claws, the hawk. And
yet how often, quite disheartened, the gray intruder
had soared away. In the fight being fought above
them now he saw the battle of catbirds and hawk.
Which would win? His sympathies had ever been
with the catbirds. It was so now. And yet he whispered
to himself, “It’s not my war.”

His war or no, he followed every move of those
birdlike things that whirling, zooming, dipping,
soaring, appeared at any moment ready to crash
head on and burst into flames.

Now the Spitfire was beneath the enemy, coming
up. Now! Oh! Now! The boy drew a deep breath.
Now the Spitfire was on the Messerschmitt’s tail.
“Now!” he breathed.

Once more a sharp exclamation escaped his lips,
for banking sharply, the enemy slid out of the trap.
At that instant, with tail to the enemy, the Tomahawk
was doing a broad circle to re-enter the scrap.

“Oh! Oh! Watch out!” Brand, the English boy
shouted, as if he could call a warning to the pilot in
the American plane. The Messerschmitt had turned
the tables and was at the Tomahawk’s back. Brand
wanted to stop his ears from the rat—tat—tat that he
knew must come. Instead, he stood there mute, staring
with all his might.

And then it came, a ripping, tearing burst of
sound, as if the very sky was being torn to shreds.

“He—he got him!” Brand’s lips went white as
the Tomahawk, after banking so sharply it seemed
to stand on its right wing, went into a spin.

Only then did the American boy realize to the
full that this was a battle, not a show affair that these
were men and planes, not birds, and that the brave
fellow in that spinning airplane was apparently
about to be beaten to a pulp on the cruel earth of the
hillside. Instinctively he closed his eyes and began to
count,—“One—two—three.” Thirty seconds, he
thought, then all will be over.

He had counted only to fifteen when a sharp
cry—“Hooray!” sent his eyes wide open again.

“He—he came out of it!” Brand exulted with a
wild wave of his arms.

It was true. The apparently doomed pilot had
somehow pulled his plane out of that fateful spin.
What was more, he was not leaving the field. Instead,
he was once again climbing rapidly.

“Look!” Brand exclaimed. “That Messerschmitt
has had enough! She’s climbing! She’s afraid of that
Tomahawk. Thinks she can outclimb him. The
Tomahawk’s motor is not so good at dizzy heights.
But, boy! How they can climb! Half a mile a minute!”

They were climbing now, all three planes. The
enemy plane had the lead by many hundreds of feet.
First after her came the Spitfire. Then the Tomahawk.

It was an all but perpendicular race, a glorious
thing to see. Slowly, surely, the game little Spitfire,
seeming only a nighthawk at that distance, closed in
upon the enemy. Behind her, closing in faster,
faster, ever faster, was the Tomahawk.

“See! What did I tell you!” Brand’s voice rose
with enthusiasm. “That Tomahawk is a climber!
You Americans should be proud of that ship!”

“I suppose we are.” Dave scarcely heard. A born
mathematician, he was trying by some occult
system to determine the outcome of this strange
race.

“In twenty seconds,” he pulled out a thin gold
watch, “the Tomahawk will pass the Spitfire. Forty
seconds more and—well—you’ll see.” His lips
trembled as his words trailed off.

Hardly had he finished speaking when the small
planes were abreast. Brand even imagined he saw
the Tomahawk’s pilot wave to the other as he
passed.

Forty tense seconds and then there came a ripping
of the sky, longer, more terrifying than any
they had yet heard. Half below, and half on the
Messerschmitt’s tail, the Tomahawk was finding
sweet revenge.

“That’s enough. No ship can take that and keep
on flying!” the English boy breathed. At the same
instant the attacking Tomahawk slipped away in a
graceful spiral glide.

“What a ship!” the American boy breathed. “It
can take it, and dish it out!”

The Messerschmitt had had more than enough.
Black bits of wreckage began dropping from the
mortally wounded plane. Among these were three
larger spots, darker than the rest. Presently above
these three white mushrooms blossomed against the
sky. “Parachutes!” Brand exclaimed. “They’re
coming down! Land somewhere up the slope. Come
on! We’ve got to get them!”

Gone from Dave’s mind was the thought that
this was not his war, as he sped after his companion.
Two facts were registered on his mind as he raced
ahead—a one-legged man using a crutch had stopped
his plow-team in the field and was racing toward
the slope—a large collie dog was scooting across a
low meadow. The dog appeared intent upon joining
the one-legged man.

Chapter III

Dolls and Nazis

In the meantime, quite ignoring the battle in the
sky, two streaks of red and gold—Cherry the girl,
and Flash the dog—had gone racing down the slope.
In her golden sweater and red plaid skirt the girl
seemed little more than a sprite. The collie might
well have been her golden shadow. That she was
quite a real person she herself knew full well. Her
painfully beating heart told her that.

Even as she raced on, her eyes were searching the
ruins that had once been the playhouse of her childhood.
They were looking for some trace of red or
blue calico,—shocking proof that her fears had been
well founded and that two small girls had been in
the playhouse at the time the bomb fell.

It was only after she had reached the top of the
stile leading from the field to the house that she
caught a loud: “Yoo-hoo! Yoo-hoo, Cherry!”

One look, and she crumpled down on the stile
steps to burst into a flood of tears, tears of pure joy.

All gay in red and blue calico Tillie and Peggy
stood in the farmhouse doorway. A moment more
and they had left the house to come racing toward
Cherry.

In the meantime the fighting planes had gone beyond
the hill, quite out of her sight. Soon she was
hugging two tumble-haired young sprites to her
bosom, and exclaiming: “Tillie! Peggy! You are
safe! I was, Oh! So afraid!”

“But the playhouse is all blowed up.” Tillie
dabbed at her eyes.

“Yes!” exclaimed Peggy, dancing a jig. “But
were we bombed! And was it exciting! Just like
fireworks! Only bigger! Much louder! There was
smoke, and then Oops! Up went everything!”

In vast astonishment Cherry stared at this small
bit of humanity from the slums of London. Her
eyes were on the child for a full minute. Then,
mustering up her courage she managed a low
chuckle. Then, springing to her feet, she cried:
“Come on! Let’s go see! We’ll make it a race!” And
so the four of them, three girls and a dog, went racing
away.

When at last they stood by the ruins of what had
once been a grand playhouse, almost a living thing
to her, Cherry was ready to weep.

How very much that playhouse had meant to
her! It was only an abandoned smoke-house, with
the pleasant odor of burning wood and smoking
meat still clinging to it, but she had made of it a sort
of second home. What grand times she and Alice
had known there! And of late, how Tillie and
Peggy had gloried in it! They had called it “Home
of our Dolls.”

“The dolls!” Cherry exclaimed as she recalled it
all. “Where are they?”

As if in answer to her appeal, the dog, Flash, went
racing about to return almost at once with the remains
of a doll held lightly between his teeth.

“Oh! Poor Wilhelmina!” Peggy cried. “She has
lost her head!”

“Yes,” said a sober voice behind her. “And if
those terrible Nazis had succeeded as they hoped to,
in dropping a bomb on our house you and I would
have been minus our heads too.” It was a tall,
strongly built girl in her late teens who spoke. She
wore a blue calico apron. Her hands were white
with flour.

“Alice!” Cherry demanded, as a look of terror
came into her eyes. “Do you really think they
meant to bomb the house?”

“Of course they did!”

“Why? What have we done?”

“They did it because we belong to England.
They hate all of England. They will destroy every
bit of England if they can!” The girl’s voice rose.
“But they can’t! They shall not. There will always
be an England!”

At that moment the plain, strongly built girl with
flour on her hands appeared transformed. No Joan
of Arc could have looked stronger, more daring,
than she.

Cherry looked at the headless doll and was silent.

In the meantime, racing breathlessly, the two
boys watched the drifting of the white enemy parachutes
across the sky. It had seemed at first that they
would land not so far from the spot where they had
stood. But a brisk wind carried them farther and farther
away.

“It’s going to be a race,” Brand panted, “but
we’ve just got to make it. They may—may be spies.
They—they must not escape!”

After climbing the sloping pasture they came to
a place of scattered shrubs and trees. At last the
parachute nearest them vanished behind a broad
beech-tree.

“Come on!” Dave spurted ahead. “It’s now or
never!”

At last, bursting out from behind a clump of
trees they came upon a silken bag lying on the
ground. At the same time a dark shadow vanished
into a clump of low shrubs. Without a word the
boys separated, one going right, the other left. The
clump was small. One or the other would come
upon the man. And then—

It was Brand’s luck to meet the man face to face.
He was young,—not more than two years Brand’s
senior. There was a savage, haunted look on his face.

“All right!” he growled, showing his teeth like
an angry dog, “You asked for it. You get it!” All
this in guttural English. An automatic gleamed in
his hand. The English boy did not move.

The automatic rose, jerkily but steadily. Now it
was aimed at the boy’s feet,—now at his thigh—his
belt—and now—

At that instant something with the force of an
avalanche struck the Nazi flier across the knees. As
he went crashing to earth the automatic exploded
harmlessly, then fell into the tall grass. Ten seconds
later both Brand and Dave were holding the man
down, as Brand panted:

“Tha—that was a capital stroke, Dave! I sup—suppose
you’d call that a tackle!”

“Right,” Dave agreed. “It’s really quite old stuff.
They do it in the movies. I guess you’d call it a part
of our American way of living.” He laughed softly.

Brand went over the Nazi flier for weapons.
Finding none, he searched in the grass, found the
automatic, then turning about, said:

“You may get up.”

The reply was an ugly snarl. But the man, who
wore a pilot’s insignia, stood up.

“Mind leading the way?” Brand said to Dave.

“Certainly not.” Turning his back on the prisoner
Dave started toward the farmhouse.

“All right, you. March!” Brand snapped. The
prisoner followed Dave.

With Brand bringing up the rear, they had not
gone a dozen paces when from somewhere, not far
distant, there came a most astounding roar.

Starting in sudden shock, Brand all but dropped
his weapon.

“Wha—what’s that?” Dave’s voice trembled as
he came to a dead stop.

“That’s old Jock! Something terrible is happening.
Here!” Brand thrust the automatic into Dave’s
hand. “You know how to use it. Press the handle,
that’s all. March him down into the pasture. Don’t
hesitate to shoot. This is war—our war!” He was
gone. As he dashed through the brush, Brand felt
his blood fairly boiling in his veins. “If anything
serious has happened to good old Jock,” he thought
savagely, “if one of those devils harms the old man
I’ll tear him to pieces with my bare hands!”

Since no further sound reached him, guided only
by that one agonizing roar, he made his way as best
he could along the slope. Then breaking through a
cluster of young beech-trees, he stopped short to
stare. The little tableau before him seemed unreal.
It might have been taken from some picture.

A young man dressed in civilian clothes, minus
a coat, lay flat upon the ground. His eyes gleaming,
white teeth showing in a snarl, a golden collie lay
with his fore-paws on the prostrate man’s chest.
Over them, leaning on his crutch, towered a great
gray-haired one-legged Scot. He was saying:
“Keep ’im Flash! Don’t ye let ’im stir an inch!”

At the same moment, from the pasture below
came the confused murmur of many voices. This
was followed by a shout: “Come on, men. They’re
’iding up ’ere somewheres!”

Chapter IV

Hans Schlitz

While the sound of voices from below grew
louder, Jock said in a steady voice:

“He was changin’ to civies.”

“His uniform must be hidden somewhere close,”
suggested Dave.

“Aye. That it must,” Jock agreed.

Brand was not long in locating the uniform half
hidden by dead leaves. In a pocket he found an automatic.

“It’s good he didn’t have that in his hand,” said
the sturdy Scot, “else I shouldn’t ha’e been here. I
caught him doin’ the lightnin’ change act.

“Plannin’ to do the spy act, eh?” He spoke to the
man on the ground. The answer was a surly curse.

“All right.” Brand spoke quietly to the dog. “Let
him up.”

Flash looked at Jock, read an answer in his eyes,
then left his post.

“Get up.” There was a sound like clinking steel
in the English lad’s voice.

“He knocked me over,” Jock explained quietly.
“That was easy enough, an’ me with but one leg.
Then he went on to finish me off. He’s got astonishin’
strong hands, that lad has. He’s all for shakin’
a man. If it hadn’t been fer good auld Flash now—”

“He would have killed you.” Chilled hate was in
Brand’s voice.

All of a sudden hands parted the branches of a
small oak and there stood the brawny blacksmith
from Warmington, the village below Ramsey
Farm. He carried an antique fowling-piece.

“So you got one of ’em? That’s grand, me boys!”
he approved. “Where now would you say the
others be?”

By that time a dozen members of the Home
Guard had gathered in.

“My friend from America, David Barnes, has one
of them just up here a little way,” Brand replied.

“I’ll say you’ve done a fine job of it,” the blacksmith
approved.

“And now then.” He turned to the prisoner.
“What may your name be?” He drew pencil and
notebook from his pocket.

For a moment the Nazi stood sullenly silent.

“Come now,” the blacksmith insisted. “It’s part
of the regulations.”

“Hans Schlitz,” came in a low, defiant voice.

“Hans Schlitz!” The words sprang unbidden from
Brand’s voice. “That’s the name of the prisoner who
worked on our farm during the World War!”

“I’m his son,” the prisoner snarled. “I’ve paid you
a visit to square accounts. I’m sorry we missed.”

“So you meant to bomb our house!” Brand stared
almost in unbelief.

“Why not? Your father treated my father, a
prisoner of war, like a dog.”

“That,” said the gray-haired blacksmith, “is not
the truth. I mind it well. He was housed and fed as
one of the family. He worked no harder than the
men of the household. He—”

“That’s a lie!” the prisoner snarled. A crimson
flush o’erspread the giant blacksmith’s face. He took
a step forward. Then he muttered low—“No. It
won’t do. Not at all it won’t do. Not to be brawlin’
with a swine like him.”

He stood there for a moment, head bowed as if
in prayer. Then his head lifted as he said:

“Here you, Bill and Hugh, take this fellow to the
guard house.

“The rest of you,” he waved an arm, “spread out
an’ search for the one that’s still free. There was
three of them, you all mind countin’.”

There was a murmur of assent. Then they were
away. “Come on,” Brand said to Dave after the
first man they had captured had been turned over
to the blacksmith and a companion. “All this leaves
me a bit groggy. Think of their deliberately planning
to blow our house off the map!”

“Terrible!” Dave agreed.

“And my father did treat that prisoner well,”
Brand said. “I remember his telling of it many times.
We saw where their plane cracked up.” Brand’s
voice rose. “Finding that plane is important. That
third fellow may have been there and finished
wrecking it. If not, we’ll be the first to look it over.”

The discovering of the wreck was no great task.
The plane had cut a path through a cluster of young
trees. In doing this it had stripped off its wings, but
its cabin, motor, and instrument board had been left
in fair condition.

“The R. A. F. will want to look at this,” Brand
said. “They’ll want to know if the Huns have discovered
any new tricks,—a bomb sight, or something
like that.”

He tried the cabin door. It stuck. Seizing a bar
from the smashed landing gear he pried the door
open. As he did so something fell at his feet. It was
a long, flat pigskin billfold.

Throwing back the flap, he pulled out a handful
of papers. The first of these appeared to be some
sort of flying orders. He could not read the German
print, but the names, written in by hand, were plain
enough.

“Fritz Steinbeck,” the boy read aloud. “That
may be the dark-haired fellow we caught first.”

“What are the other names?” Dave asked.

“Hans Schlitz, and Nicholas Schlitz. Sayee—”
Brand stared. “They may be brothers.”

“And they are!” he exclaimed in a low, tense
whisper ten seconds later. “Look! Here’s their
picture together.” He held up a thin card.

“Look almost like twins,” Dave suggested.

“Nope,” Brand concluded after a second look.
“The one we caught is the older of the two. I only
hope,” his brow wrinkled, “that they get this fellow
Nicholas. If they don’t—well—” he heaved a deep
sigh. “His name may be Nicholas, but for us, if he
harbors a grudge, as his brother surely does, he may
prove to be Old Nick, the devil himself.” He did his
best to suppress a shudder. “I’ll put this in my
pocket.” He stowed the billfold away. “Turn it
in at the airport tomorrow. Mother will be down
tonight. I want to talk the affair over with her.

“Hey, you!” he called a moment later as a boy
who could scarcely have been past sixteen put in an
appearance. “You’ve got a gun.”

“That I have,” the boy grinned.

“Want a job?”

“That I do. I’m tired of tramping.”

“Right. You just keep an eye on this wreck until
someone from the R. A. F. comes along.”

“A Royal Air Force man.” The boy grinned
again. “I’ll sure enough be glad to meet one.”

“You’ll get a chance, all right,” Brand promised.
“They won’t miss this.”

To Dave he said: “Come on. We’ll go down
now.”

They made their way through the shadows cast
by young trees in silence. Arrived at the upper side
of the broad meadow overlooking the homestead
and the village beyond, as if struck by the beauty of
the view, they paused to stand there motionless.

How different were their thoughts at that moment!

The American boy was thinking: “How
strangely beautiful it all is, as if it had been arranged
with great care so that a famous artist might paint
it.”

It was just that—the farmhouse built of native
stone, centuries old, stood in the midst of orchards
and gardens all green and gold with the colors of
autumn. Brightest speck of all was Cherry sitting
on the gray rocks.

“How like a sprite she is,” Dave was thinking.
“And how like an angel she can sing!”

Beyond the farmstead was a broad, green pasture
dotted with black and white cattle. To the right of
this its walls shattered but still upright, a great, gray
Norman castle cast a long, dark shadow.

“It’s like the shadow of war on a weary world,”
the boy thought.

As his gaze turned to the left his face brightened.
“The village,” he whispered. Never before, he
thought, had there been such a village. With its
winding street following the whimsical meandering
of a narrow stream, with its houses set irregularly
along hillsides that sloped away on either side, with
gardens running back to the edge of a great grove
of beech, oak and yew trees, it all seemed part of a
picture-book dream.

“And yet,” he thought, “the people in that village
are quite human. They are kind, simple and
good. The baker, the blacksmith, the cobbler, and
all the rest,—how really wonderful they are! And so
kind to a stranger! And yet,”—He was thinking
what it might be like tomorrow, or the day after—if
the war lasted. And it would last!

As for Brand, he was thinking quite simply and
steadfastly, “That’s my home down there. It’s always
been my home—has been the home of my
people for generations. And yet, if the purpose of
one man, or perhaps two, had been carried out on
this perfect autumn day, it would have been no
home—only a pile of rocks. And beneath that pile
would have been the crushed forms of three persons
I love.”

“This,” he said aloud, “is war. Come on.” His
voice was hoarse. “Let’s get on down.”

Chapter V

The Young Lord

The house in which the Ramseys lived was large.
Its kitchen was immense—large as the entire first
floor of a modern American home. Its fireplace took
a five-foot log at its back. Walled round with two-foot
thick stone, with flagstone floor and massive
beamed ceiling, this room seemed the inside of a
fort. And that, in days long gone bye, it might very
well have been, for a moat—in these days dry and
grown up to shrubs—ran round the house.

It was in this great room, when the day’s work
was done and night had shut out both the beauty
and the horror of the day, that the family gathered
about the cheery fire.

Over the massive glowing logs a teakettle sang.
By the hearth lay Flash, the golden collie. Back of
him, on a rug, the two young girls played at jacks.
Dave, who sat nearest to them, noted with approval
that their hair was now neatly combed, their dresses
clean, their faces shining—“That’s the part Alice
plays,” he thought with approval.

As his eyes swept the circle, Alice knitting,
Cherry smiling over a book, Jock and Brand talking
about cattle that had strayed, he thought: “This is
indeed a happy home.”

At that moment there came the sound of a motor,
followed by a loud honk. At once Cherry, with
cheeks aglow, was at the door.

She ushered in a young man of medium height,
with smooth dark hair and smiling black eyes.

“Good evening, everybody,” he exclaimed.
“Thought I’d just drop by to see how you liked the
bombing. Stirred you up a bit. I’ll bet on that. I—”
He paused as his eyes fell on Dave. Dave was new to
him. So too were the small girls who stared up at
him.

“Lord Applegate,” Cherry began, “I want
you—”

“Forget about the Lord part,” the young man
laughed. “I’m not yet a lord. If ever I receive the
title it will never fit. Call me Harmon, as you’ve always
done, or Lieutenant Applegate of the
R. A. F.”

“That,” Brand exclaimed, “is an honor indeed.
I only wish—” He did not finish but stared enviously
at the Lieutenant’s uniform. “I’d be content
if I were only a private,” he whispered under his
breath.

“Well, anyway,” Cherry laughingly began all
over, “I want you to meet David Barnes. He’s from
America. His uncle is a war reporter who knew
father in the World War. And so—”

“So he’s paying you a visit. That’s fine.” The
young lord who wasn’t yet a lord but was a Lieutenant
in the Royal Air Force shook hands with
Dave, then accepted a place beside him.

“Where did you get the children, Cherry?”
Applegate asked, looking down at the pair who had
resumed their game.

“Oh, they are Alice’s,” Cherry laughed.

“Nice work, Alice,” the Young Lord said. “It
must have been a very long time since I was here.”

“It has been,” Alice agreed. “Quite too long.
But these children,—they are refugees from London.
Bombed out, you know.

“You should have seen them when they came!”
she added in a low voice, with a grimace. “Their
mothers came with them. But they couldn’t stand
the eternal silence of this place.”

“So they left you the children?” said Applegate.
“Good old Alice!”

“Oh, they’re really a joy!” The girl’s face
lighted.

“But Harm!” Her face sobered. “That plane
dropped a bomb on the old playhouse. Blew it to
bits. You know, you used to come and play with us
sometimes long ago—with dolls and things,” she
added teasingly.

“With dolls! Good heavens!” he exclaimed.

“And today the dolls had their heads blown off,”
Cherry added. “Just think! It might have been our
heads that were blown off!”

“Yes,” the young man’s face sobered, “it might
have been. That was a real scrap. Didn’t come out
so badly on the whole. Did they catch the men who
bailed out?”

“Two of them.” Brand’s brow wrinkled. “The
Home Guard tells me the other got away.”

“Oh, they’ll catch him,” Applegate prophesied
cheerfully.

“I’m not so sure about that.” Brand did not smile.
“They did find his parachute and his uniform half
hidden under leaves.”

“Oh! Fixing to turn into a spy!” Applegate’s
face sobered.

“Alice,” the younger of the two children called.
“What is a spy?”

“A spy,” said Cherry, “steals secrets.”

“And blows up castles and bridges. A terrible
man!” said Alice. “I know all about it. I’ll tell you
a story about a spy when it’s time for bed.”

“Ooo.” Peggy gave a delectable shiver. “After
that we won’t dare go to sleep!”

“The most astonishing thing,”—Brand leaned
forward in his chair—“is that one of the men we
captured today is the son of the prisoner who
worked on this farm more than twenty years ago.”

“What?” Applegate exclaimed. “It can’t be possible!”

“How do you expect us to believe that?” Cherry
demanded with a wave of the hand.

“I’ll leave it to Dave and Jock,” Brand defended.

“That’s right,” Jock agreed. Dave nodded his
head.

“See?” Brand’s voice was low. “What’s more,
I’m almost sure the fellow who eluded us is his
brother. If you don’t believe that, look at this picture.”
He passed the paper and the photo around.

“Hans Schlitz,” Applegate said, musingly,
“That’s the name, right enough. I’ve often heard
my mother speak of him. Gloomy, brooding sort of
fellow, he was. Probably went back to Europe after
the war to tell his sons vile tales of the way he was
treated. Poisoned their minds with hate.”

“Oh—ah!” Cherry shuddered. “Gives me the
creeps to think of that son of his prowling about
here at night.”

“Oh come!” Applegate sprang up. “It’s not as
bad as all that. Come on, Cherry.” He put out his
hands. “How about a song. I’ll do the honors at the
old grand. Happy days.”

“I’d love it!” said Cherry, allowing herself to be
led away to the corner where a huge grand piano
loomed out of the shadows.

Taking up a candle, Alice carried it to that corner,
set it on the piano, then tiptoed back.

With this pale light playing across their interesting
mobile faces the young Lord and Cherry took
their places.

The moments that followed will linger long in
David’s memory. Never before had he seen or
heard anything like it. The pale light playing on two
bright happy faces, eager for all life, and most of all
the perfect blending of mellow tones from the
ancient piano with the fresh, free joy of Cherry’s
voice. Ah! That was something indeed! More than
once, without knowing it, he whispered:

“Oh Cherry! I didn’t know you could sing like
that!”

From moment to moment the mood of the music
changed. Now the girl’s slender form was swaying
to “It’s a Lovely Day Tomorrow,” the next she was
bringing back for good old Jock’s sake a song loved
by all those of twenty years before:

And then, springing to a place on the long piano
bench she cried: “Now! Let’s all sing, Roll out the
barrel.”

Long before this songfest was over Dave found
himself bursting with a wonderful plan. No, it was
not his war. But he could do his bit, couldn’t he?
And he would.

When quite out of breath after her last rollicking
song Cherry was led to her place by the fire, she
exclaimed:

“Oh! It’s wonderful just to live!”

“Yes,” the Young Lord agreed. “It is grand.
And yet, perhaps tomorrow we die.

“Come!” He took Brand by the shoulder. “Let’s
go out and see the holes those bombs dug for you.
I’ve got to report to my C. O. about them.” And
so the two of them disappeared into the night.

“Come Peggy. Come Tillie,” Alice called. “Time
for a goodnight story. And then to bed.”

“Will you really tell us a spy story?” Peggy
begged.

“Perhaps.”

“A real, true spy story!” Tillie was fairly dancing.

“Yes, I guess so.”

At that Alice, the two children, and Flash, the
dog, marched into the small dining room to close
the door behind them.

“It was the Young Lord who piloted that Tomahawk
plane this afternoon,” Jock said in a hoarse
whisper. “I have it on good authority, the very
best.”

“And he said never a word about it!” Dave marvelled.

“He’s like that.” Cherry’s lips went white. “He
never tells of such things. But just think! He nearly
crashed!”

“So near I closed my eyes,” Dave replied admiringly.
“Young Lord,” he thought. “Not a bad name
for a chap like that!”

Chapter VI

Lady Spies

When Jock had gone stomping out to follow the
Young Lord on his tour of inspection, Dave found
himself alone with Cherry.

“Listen, Cherry.” He was more excited than the
girl had ever known him to be. “I’ve got a grand
idea!”

“That’s what England needs right now,” the girl
laughed nervously. “Just think what happened today,
and is likely to happen more and more.”

“That’s just it!” Dave leaned forward eagerly.
“In all of England there are thousands of anxious
people, millions, really, who need a touch of youthful
cheer. And you can give it to them!”

“I?” The girl caught her breath. “How?”

“By singing for them as you sang for us tonight—singing
over the radio.”

“Oh—o!” Cherry drew in a long breath. “I
hadn’t thought of doing that. You—you see, I’m
only a local song bird in a little country village.
Easter at the church, you know, Christmas carols,
parties, and all that. But the radio! I—I—just—”

“Don’t say you couldn’t,” Dave pleaded. “Please
say you’ll try. We must each do our bit.” He had
forgotten for the moment that this was not his war.

“Yes, I know,” Cherry breathed. “There’s
mother, you know. She was a World War nurse.
Now she’s directing an entire ward. Alice has her
refugee children. And I—I just sit in the sun and tend
the sheep.”

“Yes. And you might be the most talked-of girl
in England!” Dave was bursting with his new idea.
“Just go up to London with me tomorrow. My
uncle has a trans-Atlantic news broadcast. He’ll
arrange it all. Wi—will you go?”

“Sure! Shake on it.” The girl put out a slim hand.

“It’s just as I thought,” declared the Little Lord,
as the men came stomping back into the room a
moment later. “Those bombs were rather small. A
Messerschmitt can’t carry a heavy load. But they
can keep all of England on edge with their nuisance
flight.”

“Cheerio!” Cherry sprang to her feet. “At least
one Messerschmitt has ceased to be a nuisance, and
that, I’m told, is because a certain Young Lord
learned how to fly long ago.”

“All part of a day’s work,” the Young Lord
grinned. “I’d like just such a scrap every morning
before breakfast.”

At that the cook brought in cakes and steaming
coffee and they all took seats by the great broad
three-inch thick table that had served the Ramsey
family for more than a hundred years.

In the meantime Alice was telling her young
refugees the promised spy story.

“Once,” she began, “in that other terrible war,
the one in which my father and your grandfather
fought, there were two spies named Louise and
Charlotte.”

“Oh!” Tillie exclaimed with a sudden start. “Are
there really lady spies?”

“To be sure,” was the quiet reply.

“Goody!” Tillie clapped her hands. “I’m going
to be a lady spy!”

“Yes sir!” Peggy broke in with her high, piping
voice. “We’ll both be spies. You be Louise, and I’ll
be Charlotte!”

“Wait and see!” the story teller warned. “Let
me tell you the story. Then you may not want to be
a spy at all!”

“Oh, yes we will!” Tillie insisted. “Aunt Alice
(they called her aunt) do we have a spy right here
on our farm?” The child’s voice was low, mysterious.

“Hush!” Alice warned. “Don’t dare to breathe a
word about that.”

“Tillie!” The younger child’s voice rose sharply,
“Let her tell the story!”

And so, while the children lay back among the
cushions, Alice told the story of Louise and Charlotte.

“They had lived in France.” Her voice was low
and mellow. “Then had come the terrible German
soldiers. Louise fled before them. Charlotte hid in a
cellar.

“Louise was very bright. She had been a teacher.
She could speak French, German and Belgian.

“A great soldier asked her to be a spy. This
frightened her nearly out of her wits. But she said
‘all right. I will do it.’

“One dark night a great giant of a man named
Alphonse, who had been a smuggler and was a
friend of her country, took her hand and said: ‘We
will go.’”

“Wh—where did they go?” Tillie was growing
excited.

“They went to the border.” Alice smiled. “At
the border there was a very high barbed wire fence.
You couldn’t go over it. If you tried to go under it
you might touch an electric wire that would sound
an alarm. Then you would be shot. If you tripped
on something it might set off a mine, and you’d be
blown to bits.”

“And wa—was—” Tillie got no further. Her sister’s
fingers were on her lips.

“We do have a spy”

“Alphonse knew all about these things,” Alice
went on. “He made a hole under the fence. The
earth was very loose. He had gone under before.
They got across safely. Then they were in the land
where German soldiers were. And, just when they
were breathing easy, a blinding white light swept
along the barbed wire fence. It was searching for
them.”

“And—did—”

“Alphonse and Louise dropped flat and lay there
hiding their faces in the damp earth. The sweeping
searchlight came and went, came and went, then
came to go away for good.”

“Oh—oo!” Peggy breathed. “They didn’t get
them.”

Just then Tillie sat straight up. “Aunt Alice!” she
cried. “We do have a spy on our farm. I saw his face
at the window. I really did, just now.” At that same
instant the dog Flash growled softly.

Visibly shaken, Alice managed to regain her
poise. “Shish!” was all she said. Then she went on
with her story.

“When this loyal French girl reached her home
where German soldiers now were living, she began
making lace and selling it from town to town. What
was more important, she was finding friends to
help her work as a spy. One was a scientist who
could do strange things with chemicals, magnifying
glasses, cameras and printing presses. Another was
a map maker who in shorthand could write three
thousand words with invisible ink on a piece of
transparent paper so small Louise could paste it to a
spectacle lens and carry it across the line that way.”

“What for?” Tillie breathed.

“So none of the German spies could read it,”
Alice explained.

“You see,” she went on, “things were happening
over there that great French and English officers
needed to know. And Louise could tell them. Once
there was a terrible battle. Thousands of Germans
were wounded. How many? Louise must find out.

“There was a house close to the railroad track
where all the cars filled with wounded soldiers were
passing. Someone hid in the dark room. Every time
a car passed, she’d tap on the floor, tap, tap, tap. In
the next room, seeming to study her lessons, was a
school girl.”

“Just like you and me!” Tillie squeezed Peggy’s
arm.

“This school girl was making marks on paper,”
Alice went on. “Four marks, then one across, four
more and one across.”

“Keeping track of the taps. I could do that.”
Tillie was growing excited again.

“When all the trains had passed,” Alice whispered,
“Louise counted up all the marks. Then she
multiplied that by the number of wounded men in
each car, and so she knew how many thousands had
been badly wounded. But how was she to get that
number across the line?”

“Paste it on her spectacle,” suggested Tillie.

“Not this time, she didn’t,” Alice smiled. “She
wrote it on a paper and hid it. You’d never guess
where.”

“In her shoe—in her glove—in her hair,” Tillie
exploded.

“Nope. None of these.” Alice shook her head.
“Let me tell you all about it, then you may guess.”

“Al—all right.” Tillie drew a long breath as she
settled back.

“You see,” said Alice, “Louise was going down a
dark road in the night. In one hand she carried her
bag of laces, in the other a lantern. It was a tin lantern.
The tin was all full of holes. Inside a candle
flickered. It didn’t give much light, just enough.
Suddenly a gruff voice commanded:

“‘Halt!’

“Louise was taken to a rough cabin where a short
broad German spy woman lived. Everyone called
her Le Grenouille, the frog. Louise and Charlotte
feared and hated her.

“‘Take off your clothes’, that’s what the Frog
said to Louise.

“Before obeying, Louise carefully blew out the
candle in her lantern, then set it in the corner.

“All her clothes were taken off. Everything was
searched,—dress, stockings, shoes,—everything.
Nothing was found.

“‘All right. You may dress and be gone,’ said the
Frog.

“When Louise had dressed she went on her way.
That night our High Commander way across the
line in France knew how many Germans had been
wounded in that battle.”

“Louise, the spy, had told him,” Peggy whispered.

“She showed them the paper on which the number
had been written,” said Alice. “Where do you
think it was hidden?”

“In her basket!” Tillie cried.

“No.”

“In her hair,” Tillie guessed again.

“I know!” Peggy jumped up and down. “In her
candle!”

“Good! That’s right! How did you guess?”
Alice’s face shone.

“She—” Peggy did not finish. At that instant old
Flash leapt from his corner, dashed up to the window
which was above his head, and barked angrily.

At the same instant Tillie cried: “We do have a
spy on our farm! I saw his face in the window! Saw
him plain as day!”

They all rushed to the kitchen where the others
were talking. A few excited words and the boys,
with Flash at their heels, were out searching in the
night.

But for one thing they might have succeeded in
making a capture. The moment they stepped outside,
the sky was lit by a sudden flash. Then came
the roar of an explosion.

“They’re at it again,” Young Lord murmured.

“Here Flash!” Brand called. “Go find him!” But
Flash only whined at his feet. The roar of that distant
explosion had paralyzed him. And so, in the end
they returned empty handed.

“Aunt Alice,” Peggy whispered as she was being
tucked in bed, “will you tell us more about those
lady spies?”

“Sometime perhaps,” was the quiet reply.

Chapter VII

Enemy Sighted

After they returned from the futile search the
three of them, Dave, Brand and the Young Lord
stood for a time beside the car. They had talked for
a moment. Then Brand walked away to the barn
for one more look about before he retired for the
night. It had been a strange, exciting and momentous
day. Nothing quite like it had ever happened at
Ramsey Farm before. He felt restless and ill at ease.

After he had gone the Young Lord asked Dave a
strange question:

“What are you doing in England?”

“Why—I—nothing really,” Dave hesitated. “You
see my uncle is in the news service here. He was
coming over in the Clipper. He invited me to come
along. So here I am. Perhaps it wasn’t quite as simple
as all that, but he fixed it up.”

“I see,” the Young Lord murmured.

Did he? Dave doubted that. He made a second
start. “You see I’ve had two years in college. Didn’t
like it any too well, the class-room part. Oh, math
was well enough. In fact I really liked it. But the
rest,” he heaved a sigh. “Well, I majored mostly in
football, basketball, tennis and golf. So—oo,”

“So they didn’t care much whether you stayed
on?”

“I suppose not. Anyway, all the colleges in
America have been crammed with fellows who
haven’t anything else to do but go to college
now,—”

“All that will change fast,” said the Young Lord.
“The way things are going over there now those
boys are going to have things to do. Ever do any
flying?” he asked abruptly.

“Yes—a little—quite a bit in fact. Uncle was a
flyer in the World War. Not an ace exactly, but he
got to like flying. He’s always had a flying crate or
two about, and naturally I had to have a turn at
them.”

The Young Lord guessed, and quite shrewdly
too, that Dave was being too modest about his flying.

“I’m trying out a new plane tomorrow,” he said
slowly. “It’s a two-seater. Want to go up? Just a
little sky patrol. Nothing’s likely to happen.”

Dave seemed to see that Tomahawk of the afternoon
plunging downward apparently headed for
destruction. He wanted to say “no”. For some reason
his tongue wouldn’t form the word. So he said:

“Yes. Sure. I’d like to.”

“Righto.” The Young Lord reached for the door
of his big old English car. “I’ll be after you in this
bus at 10:00 A. M.”

His motor roared. He was away.

“Now why did I say that?” Dave asked himself
aloud.

“Say what?” He started. Brand was at his side.

“I promised to go up with Applegate tomorrow.”

“Sayee! That’s corking! Just what I’d like to do!
In fact,” Brand’s tone was sober, “I want to join up.
Since this afternoon I want to more than ever.
Mother objects. Says I’m needed to manage the
farm. Says the army needs our butter and fat cattle.
This farm! Of course, we love it. All of us do. But
when all of England is threatened—when the others
are doing their bit—to be tied to the sail! God!”
Brand stamped his foot.

“It’s all the way you think, I guess.” Dave
laughed lightly. “Well, I’ll be up having a look at
your native land from the clouds in the morning.
So, goodnight.” Half an hour later, in his bed beneath
the rafters of that ancient house, Dave was
asking himself: “Why did I come to England?”

The answer seemed simple enough. This war was
too big to miss—that is—miss seeing. But why had he
persuaded Cherry to go with him to London where
bombs were falling? Why had he promised to go up
with the Young Lord in the morning? He did not
know the answers. All he knew was that he felt like
a fly caught in a web. The web did not have a very
strong hold on him yet. He could break away if he
wished. But did he wish? Not knowing the answer,
he fell asleep.

In another corner of that broad upstairs, her door
leading into the children’s room ajar, Alice was
hearing a shrill childish voice cry:

“You’re a spy, a little lady spy. I’m a frog, a great
big black frog. I’m going to swallow you—swallow
you right down. Here I come!”

This was followed by a low, half-suppressed exclamation,
a giggle, then a loud “Shish.” After that
all was silent.

Alice was nearly asleep when suddenly from far
overhead there came the roar of powerful motors.
London was in for one more beating. Would those
terrible bombings never end?

It was with a strange thrill tickling his spine that
Dave climbed into the rear of the lord’s two-seater
plane the next day. This, he knew, was a fighting
plane, his very first. This plane carried a sting in its
nose, eight guns capable of firing nearly ten thousand
shots per minute.

“Of course,” he thought, “this is broad daylight.
Not much chance of picking up an enemy. And
yet, there’s yesterday.”

After fastening his safety belt with great care,
he waited for the takeoff. It came with a roar. They
were in the air. Some ship!

He studied it with great care. It had a dual control.
If something happened, just happened to go
wrong with the Young Lord, he could bring the
ship to earth. He might, in a pinch, do a great deal
more. The firing of those guns seemed simple. He
had had a great deal more flying experience than he
was willing to admit,—at least 200 hours.

Seeming to read his thoughts, Applegate gave a
slight squeeze at his firing button. In no uncertain
tones the guns spoke. Dave was thrilled to his fingertips.

He began studying the electric switches, the
emergency boost, the petrol switch, the air-speed
indicator, the directional gyro, the climb indicator,
and all the other instruments. A born mechanic, he
could study these out one by one, eliminate the ones
least needed, then picture himself guiding the ship.

Watching a mirror, studying his face, Applegate
nodded in approval to the sky. As they climbed to
10,000 feet Dave saw London in the distance.
Smoke hung over it. There had been a bombing,
fires started. Homes of simple, honest, hard-working
people who had not asked for this war had been
destroyed. He hated all that.

White clouds, like distant snowbanks, were
drifting through the blue as blue sky.

“Take her for a minute, will you?” The Young
Lord spoke in a matter-of-fact voice.

Dave’s hands trembled as he gripped the controls.
He kept the ship going on an even keel while his
companion, after unstrapping heavy binoculars,
studied the sky.

Suddenly Applegate threw out a hand. Swinging
it to the right, he directed Dave into a fluffy white
cloud.

“That’s it,” he approved. “Now just lurk around
in here for a bit.”

With a tickling sensation at the back of his neck
Dave “loitered round”. At the same time he was
asking himself, “Why did I let myself in for this?”

Twice they came out of the cloud, but on the
wrong side. At last, after one more wave of the
lord’s hand, Dave headed straight out, on the side
from which they had entered.

He caught his breath sharply as, on breaking out
into blue sky, he sighted an airplane beneath and
beyond them. He trembled as he saw the hated
swastika on its tail.

“Will there be a scrap?” he asked himself.
Strangely enough he felt quite cool about it. The
Young Lord took the controls. The motors roared.
This gave Dave time to study land and sky. As near
as he could tell the other plane which was slowly
circling, was just about over Ramsey Farm. “That’s
why Applegate is putting on such speed,” he
thought.

Just then, like a squirrel darting for shelter, the
enemy plane leapt upward and into a cloud.

“You better!” Applegate growled, at the disappearing
enemy.

Only when they were near the cloud did he
slacken his speed. Then, like a dog waiting for a
squirrel, he loitered about in the sky.

“If the enemy really wished to get away,” Dave
thought, “every advantage is with him.” A whole
string of clouds was drifting in from the distant sea.
Was he glad or sorry? At that moment he could not
have told.

After a time, like a dog watching clumps of
bushes where a rabbit is hiding, the Young Lord
began skirting that long procession of clouds.

They had followed almost to landsend and the
shore when suddenly the Young Lord pointed to a
black speck against the distant sky. Dave heaved a
sigh of relief. Turning about, they headed for the
airdrome.

“He was bashful, that Hun,” Applegate laughed
into his mouthpiece. “Perhaps he came over to find
his pals who paid us a visit yesterday. Sorry to disappoint
him. Even the wreck has been carted
away.”

“One of his friends is still at large,” Dave suggested.
“Might have set up a signal. Black cross cut
from the sod would do the trick.”

“That’s right,” Applegate agreed. “Anyway,”
he laughed as they began circling for a landing,
“we’re back just in time for lunch. It’s cold beef
and plum pudding. You’ll stay, I hope.”

“Oh! Sure!” Dave agreed.

His visit to the flying corps’ mess was one not
soon to be forgotten. He had read magazine stories
of these fighters. Loud, boisterous, wild and a bit
coarse, that was how they had been pictured. To
his surprise he found them a simple, kindly lot, with
manners that would have put many a college group
to shame.

“You’ve really got to be up to things to be a-flying
in this squadron,” the Young Lord explained.
“And in any other, for that matter. Drinking, loud
laughs, roughness—well, it doesn’t seem to go with
life-and-death flying, that’s all.

“You have to be a man,” he added after a pause.
“And a man’s nearly always a gentleman as well.”

Chapter VIII

Roll Out the Barrel

When late that afternoon Dave walked with
Cherry to the village to catch the bus to London,
he carried a parcel under his arm. “My hiking
boots,” he explained. “These hard roads have worn
the soles thin.”

“Oh! I’m glad,” Cherry exclaimed. “You are
going to like Uncle John. He’s our shoemaker. We
call him that though I’m sure he’s really uncle to
no one. He’s very old and still does all his work the
hard way, by hand. Wonderful work it is, too.”

Dave did like Uncle John. Seated there at his
bench, a leather apron on his lap and nails between
his teeth, he seemed to have just moved out of a
very old story book.

“Do you still make shoes as well as repair them?”
Dave asked.

“Oh, yes, now and then.” The old man’s smile
was good to see. “I’ve made all the Young Lord’s
shoes since he was a baby.

“But then,” he sighed, “times have changed. You
can’t get the leather any more. It used to be that I
could make a pair of shoes and guarantee them for
five years. Those times are gone.

“But perhaps it is best that it should be so,” he
added cheerfully. “Nowdays people like change.
If you only pay one pound for a pair of shoes, you
can afford more than one pair.” Taking a tack from
his mouth, he drove it home, then another.

“He lives in two small rooms behind the shop,”
Cherry said when they were outside. “His little
wife was just like him, always cheerful and kind.
She died three years ago.

“Nearly all the people in the village are like that,”
she added as they walked on. “The butcher has his
stall in front of his home. The baker’s shop is in his
basement. So is the grocer’s. Everyone works. All
are kindly. They never have much, but they make
it do—and are happy.”

Dave was to recall this picture with a sudden pull
at his heartstrings in the days that were to come.

The bus came lurching in. They climbed aboard
and were away for London.

Arrived in London they hurried up to the radio
studio for Cherry’s audition. Singing in a bare studio
with a strange accompanist, the girl was far from
doing her best. For all that the director gave her a
small spot on the “People’s Choice” program at
9:00 P. M.

Once more on the street where shadows had
grown long and dark, and people by hundreds were
hastening home before the air raid siren sounded,
Cherry gripped Dave’s arm as she said in a tragic
whisper: “David, I never can stick it out. It will
only be a dismal failure.”

“Nonsense!” Dave laughed. “It’s only stage-fright.
Come on. My uncle took me to a rare little
basement eating place once. They serve good old
American coffee and waffles with maple syrup.
That will put you on your toes.”

In the quiet of the sub-cellar, they drank great
quantities of coffee and ate their waffles joyously.

“I—I guess I’ll make it now,” Cherry murmured.
Once more they were on the deserted streets.

Then, as if to crush her high hopes, all hell let
loose. The roar of powerful motors, the scream of
sirens, the boom and bang of anti-aircraft guns
filled all the night with terror.

“I can’t let you in ’ere now,” said a burly guard
at the entrance to the broadcasting station. “It is
quite impossible. You shouldn’t be ’ere at all.”

“But this lady is to sing over the radio at nine!”
Dave protested.

“Can’t be ’elped.” The guard was firm. “Orders
is orders. No ladies hallowed in the station during
an alarm. If you’d ask me sir, I’d hadvise a subway
station at once, sir. Yonder’s one not ’alf a block
haway.”

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when
there came a low, whining sound, followed by a
flash that lit all the sky. Then came a roar fit to burst
their eardrums, and a tremendous push that tossed
them to the pavement five yards away.

Without a word Dave scrambled to his feet,
picked the slight girl up in his arms, dashed half a
block, and was down two flights of stairs to the subway
station before he fully realized what he was
doing.

Seated on the hard floor of the station, with thousands
of people all about them, for a full moment
they were completely silent. Then Dave began to
laugh. Cherry joined in, and the spell was broken.

The laugh over, they looked about them. The
whole long platform was filled with people. Young
and old, rich and poor, salesgirls in thin, shabby
coats, gray-haired ladies in mink and ermine, they
all were there. And all, it seemed, were bent on
making the best of an unpleasant situation. Bye and
bye they would do their best to snatch a little sleep,
for tomorrow would be another day.

“Look at them.” There was a catch in Dave’s
throat. “They seem almost happy.”

“Yes.” Cherry’s chin went up. “They’re not going
to let Hitler get them down. He wouldn’t be
pleased if he could see them now!”

In a bright corner four old men were playing
cards. In the shadows a shopgirl was whispering to
her young man. Sitting on their bedrolls, two sedate
matrons were knitting. Children were everywhere,
and all of them whooping it up in hilarious fun.

“Excuse me,” said a smiling young lady. “Aren’t
you Cherry Ramsey?”

“Why—why yes, I am.” Cherry looked into a
pair of eager blue eyes.

“I knew it!” the young lady exclaimed. “I heard
you sing at Lady Applegate’s home once. It was
truly quite wonderful. Now—” she hesitated, “well,
you see, I’m just helping out down here, sort of
social service work, don’t you know. And I thought
you might not mind, well, you know,”—she hesitated—“well,
perhaps you wouldn’t mind singing a
song or two for these people. They’d think it quite
the berries if you would.”

“Well, that—” Cherry laughed, “that’s what I
came to town for, to sing on the radio. But the guard
wouldn’t let us go up to the station.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” Miss Meeks, the social
worker murmured. “Listen!” There came a deep,
low rumble like the roll of distant thunder. “You
can’t help loving these people, don’t you know.”
Her tired face brightened as she spread out her arms.
“Not one of them knows whether his home will be
standing in the morning. But you see how they are.”

“Yes—yes I see.” Cherry swallowed hard.

“The radio,” Miss Meeks murmured. “Now I
shouldn’t wonder. Will you sing for them, Miss
Ramsey?”

Cherry nodded.

From somewhere a small piano was made to appear.
A little Irish girl with a tumbled mass of red
hair took her place before it. A small platform—a
heavy packing box—was placed beside the piano.

After shedding her heavy coat, Cherry stood before
her strange audience. All lovely in gold and
blue, she caught their eyes at once. Leaning over,
she whispered to the girl at the piano, giving her
the name of her first song. The social worker
clapped her hands for silence. Deep, appreciative
silence followed.

“Miss Ramsey, a friend of Lady Applegate, from
Dorset way, will sing to us,” Miss Meeks announced.
“Let’s give her a hand.” The applause was
tumultuous.

Somehow, a light, not too strong, was made to
play on the slender girl as she sang.

She sang the song through to the end. The
applause that followed drowned out the sound of
exploding bombs.

“More! More!” came from every corner.

The social worker slid a microphone before the
singer. Bending over, a smile on her lips, Cherry
once more whispered a title. Then, lifting her voice
high, she cried: “Roll out the Barrel! Everybody
sing! Let’s make it ring!”

Everybody did sing,—more people than Cherry
will ever know, for through the microphone that
had been placed before her, Cherry was at last singing
on the radio. From end to end of England the
song boomed on: “Roll out the Barrel.”

Every platform in the subway had its radio.
Station by station they joined in until the whole
tube, miles on end, echoed with the song.

It seemed to Dave as he listened after that song
was over, that even the Führer must have heard the
applause that followed, heard and shuddered.

Dropping into a mellow mood for the oldsters
who recalled that other terrible war, Cherry sang:

Then, scarcely pausing for breath, leaning far
forward, a bewitching smile on her face, she sang:
“No! No! No! Papasista.”

When the roar of applause had died away, Dave
heard a gray-haired lady in a Persian lamb coat say:

“Such a vulgar song!”

“Quite,” agreed her mink-coated friend. “Vulgar
and wonderful. I quite love this war. It has given
me one more chance for a fling at life.”

“All out for England!” Cherry called into the
megaphone. “Everybody sing, ‘We’ll roll the old
chariot along’.”

They sang. They roared. They sang.

In the hush that followed, Cherry announced in
a low, husky voice: “God save the King.”

There followed a shuffling of feet. Every man,
woman and child was on his feet. Even the enemy
planes above seemed to hush as the glorious National
Anthem rolled over England from Dover to
Newcastle.

There were tears in the social service worker’s
eyes as she took Cherry’s hand. “You’ll come again,
won’t you?” she said in a low voice full of meaning.
“Often and often.”

“Everybody Sing”

“If—if you need me,” was the quiet reply.

“And you said you couldn’t do it!” Dave laughed
happily as he guided her up the stairs and back to
their sub-basement for one more cup of good
American coffee.

Chapter IX

The Hideout

That night members of that motley subway
throng shared their beds with their new-found
friends. Dave found a place with a young disabled
veteran of the battle of Flanders. They slept on a
thin pad and were covered by blankets none too
thick. The subway was cold and drafty. For two
hours Dave lay there thinking. Those were long,
long thoughts. Back to the pictured walls of his
mind came the peaceful pastures of Ramsey Farm,
the racing planes overhead, the falling bombs, and
the drifting parachutes. He rode once more with
young Lord Applegate in that two-seater. His
blood raced again as they played hide-and-seek with
an enemy plane in the clouds. Again he heard the
thundering crash of a bomb that had exploded, not,
he supposed, more than two blocks from where he
and Cherry had stood. What if it had been only one
block, or no block at all? He tried to think this last
question through, and could not quite make it. Nor
could he answer to his complete satisfaction, his
second and third questions,—why had he come to
England? And why did he not go home? There
would be a plane for Lisbon the day after tomorrow.
Would he take it? He doubted it. And yet it
seemed to him a voice whispered, “It is to this or
no other. Think it over.” He did not think. Instead,
he fell asleep.

Cherry had been given a welcome by a bright
young lady who sold shoes in a great store. This
young lady was wondering whether a bomb had
scattered her shoes over a city block, and her job
with them. In the midst of her chatter Cherry fell
sound asleep.

Before they could leave the subway next morning
two people were after them.

The manager of the radio station, who the night
before had given Cherry such a lukewarm reception,
came bustling down the stairs. She, he said, had
been “Splendid! Splendid! Quite remarkable indeed!
How the people had taken to her! There had
been wires, phone calls,—everything. Would she
come back at nine that night and sing at the studio?
She should have a competent accompanist and
every courtesy. Would she come?”

“No.” Cherry favored him with her brightest
smile. “I won’t sing in your studio. I can’t sing in a
stuffy little box with no one about except a man
in a glass case who waves his arms, pretends to cut
his own throat with his fingers, points to the tip of
his nose, and goes through all manner of other contortions
just to tell me what to do.”

All this left the man staring at her, speechless.

“But if,”—Cherry burst into a merry laugh—“if
you’ll let me sing on my box with my glorious red-headed
Irish girl to tickle the ivories, I’ll come back,
not tonight, but very soon, and often.”

“Oh! My dear child!” the manager exploded.
“You are generosity itself. But the subway is cold
and drafty.”

“No place,” said Cherry, and she did not smile,
“can be cold where so many warm hearts are beating
as one.”

The man stared at her in speechless silence for a
moment. Then he murmured, “May God forgive
me if this child is not a genius.”

But here was her mother. She too had heard the
broadcast and thought it marvelous. This was her
day off. Her small car was just around the corner.
She would take them back to Ramsey Farm in time
for scrambled eggs, coffee and scones. And she did.

Mrs. Ramsey, David realized at once, was a
strong, efficient person, with a will of her own. She
directed the affairs of her household as the O. C.
directs his squadron. Breakfast over, she called in
the entire group to discuss farm affairs. She commended
Jock for his fine job of plowing, and the
boys for their work in the turnips and Brussels
sprout patches.

“England is going to need food,” she declared.
“We must all do our best. The nights are growing
cold. We may get a freeze at any time, so—oo—”

“So it’s the potatoes next.” Brand gave vent to
a good-natured groan. He hated picking up potatoes.
Stooping over made his back ache. But theirs was a
fine crop, and it must be gathered in.

Jock got out the potato plow. Soon they were all
hard at work. David joined in. So too did Alice.
Even the “enfants terrible”, Tillie and Peggy,
helped a little. They were, however, at their best
throwing clods, so in the end they were banished.

The place where the potatoes were stored held
for Dave a real fascination.

“We call it the Hideout,” Alice explained, dropping
down on a sack of potatoes for a short rest.
“It’s as old as the hills. Did you note the moss on the
roof?”

“Six inches thick,” Dave agreed. “And look at
the walls! Solid masonry!”

“We believe it goes back to Feudal days.” Alice’s
eyes took in the one large room, its broad stone fireplace,
two narrow windows, and massive beams.
“In those days it was a real hideout, I shouldn’t wonder,”
she murmured.

“And might be again,” Dave suggested.

“Yes, if the Huns really come,” she agreed. “But
they’ll never get this far—England will beat them
back even if they swarm in on the shore like the
waves of the sea.”

All that day Cherry sat curled up in a great chair
before the fire in the farmhouse kitchen. She sometimes
slept, sometimes thought soberly, and sometimes
dreamed. To this her wise mother offered no
objections. Cherry, she realized for the first time,
had a great gift. She might, it seemed, be of extraordinary
service to all England. She could bring
them the spirit of youth, buoy them up, give them
courage for the great ordeal that lay ahead.

The potatoes were stored in a narrow, dark underground
tunnel that one entered through a door
at the back of the Hideout.

“A grand air raid shelter,” suggested Dave.

“Hope we never need it,” Alice replied soberly,
“but you never can tell.” Her brow wrinkled. She
was thinking of the hole in the ground where an
ancient playhouse had once stood. “How about a
tramp to the village?” she suggested.

“O. K. by me,” said Dave. “I’ll see if my boots
are finished.”

The boots were not finished. But then, boots at
the cobbler’s never are—at least, not the first time
you call.

“You’ll have to pardon the delay,” the old man
apologized. “So many boys from the airdrome have
brought in their boots.

“But things will go faster now.” His face brightened.
“You see I have a helper.”

For the first time Dave noticed a short, sturdy
young man sitting in the corner. He was sewing on
a sole and never once looked up.

Dave thought with a start, “He has a vaguely
familiar look. But I’ve never seen him before, that’s
certain.”

“He does very fine work.” The old man rubbed
his hands together. “Very fine indeed.”

Appearing a little disturbed by Dave’s lingering
look at the stranger, old John followed him out of
the shop to close the door behind him. “He’s quite
proper,” he said, jerking a thumb backward toward
the shop. “He looks like a German, but he’s a refugee,
a Hollander. You understand?”

“Yes,—I”

“His papers are in perfect order. I saw to that you
may well believe.” The old man laughed a trifle uncertainly.
“Our local magistrate looked over those
papers for me,” he went on. “We can’t take chances.
But this, you see, is a rare opportunity. I’ve never
made any real money, not in all my long life. And
now, with all these fliers coming in—”

“Gives you a break,” said Dave. “I wish you lots
of luck.” As it turned out, the old man was to need
it,—lots and lots of luck.

When the cobbler opened the door to retrace his
steps, Flash, the collie, who had come up as a sort of
vanguard to Alice, put his nose in at the cobbler’s
door, gave a long sniff, then uttered a low growl.

“Well now, I wonder what he means by that?”
Dave thought as he hurried away to join Alice.

That night, after the others had retired, Mrs.
Ramsey, Dave and Brand sat for a long time silently
watching the fading glow of the wood fire.

“Mother,” Brand said suddenly, “I’d like to join
the Royal Air Force.”

“Oh! No!” The mother’s words came short and
quick. “You are needed here. Besides, there’s little
enough for our aviators to do now. After the beating
up we gave them, the Jerries, as you call them,
are only coming over at night. You can’t find them
at night. That’s work for the anti-aircraft batteries.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” Brand murmured beneath
his breath. “But mother,” his voice rose, “the
Huns may come over, a million of them, by air and
sea, perhaps tomorrow. We must be prepared!”

“And we must be fed,” his mother replied quietly.
“Perhaps later—” She did not finish. She knew
a great deal about war, did the brave-hearted English
mother.

“Wars,” said David, speaking before he thought,
“are wrong. There should be no wars.”

Instantly the woman’s slow, steady gaze was upon
him. “She’s angry with me,” he thought. His lips
were parted for the words, “I’m sorry.”

But she spoke first. “You are exactly right, David.
Wars are terrible. I should know. Wars have cost
me those I loved far more than life. Now another
war may cost me my son, and perhaps my daughters.

“Some of us,” she went on, “did what we could
to prevent this war. We failed. Why? Perhaps none
of us will ever know for sure.

“However,” her voice was steady and sure, “we
have a war. We have no choice but to fight it. We
must fight or be enslaved. Our enemy has left no
room for doubt there. England has always been
free.”

After that for some time, save for the slow, steady
tick—tock—tick—tock of the dependable old English
clock in the corner, there was silence in the
great room.

Later, as they stood outside beneath the stars,
Brand told Dave that for more than a year the
Young Lord had been training him, teaching him
how to become a fighter. “And he’s a real fighter
himself, you may be sure of that.” His voice was
low and strong. “He’s no braggart like some of
those flying Huns. He has a real record all the same.
He flew in France during the Blitzkrieg. Sometimes
it was ten Messerschmitts to his one Hurricane. He
got two of them. That was just one time. There
were many others. You just wait!” His voice rose
sharply. “I’ll be right up there beside him in a Tomahawk
one of these days!”

Would he? Dave wondered.

Chapter X

First Blood

Next day, just after lunch, feeling very much like
a small boy slipping away to go fishing, Dave made
his way toward the airdrome. He wanted, he told
himself, to study a Spitfire. He had seen that one in
action over the farm on the day of that air battle.
It had fascinated him. Truth was, he hoped to run
across the Young Lord and perhaps to be invited for
one more ride in that two-seater. There was, he
realized, a slight element of danger in such an excursion,
just enough to give it tang, like a frosty morning.

He was not to be disappointed. Lieutenant Applegate
was just having the machine rolled out.

“Greetings!” he cried. “Just in time! But then,”
his voice changed. “I must not tempt you too much.
This, you will understand, is our life. It is easy to
ask too much of one who is not in on the great
game.”

“I’ll be glad to go up again,” Dave said quietly.
“To tell you the truth, that’s what I had hoped to
do.”

“Righto! Climb in!” Applegate exclaimed. “You
see,” he added, “we’re just giving this ship a tryout.
Perhaps after we’ve done a stretch of patrol, we’ll
ask the ground crew to run up a sky target and I’ll
let you have a try at it with a few bursts of machine
gun fire.”

“Oh!” Dave caught his breath sharply. But if he
had known!

“We’ve always got more men than ships,” Applegate
went on. “So if two men in a ship like this,
by dividing the things to worry about, like dials,
controls, gun-sights and all, can accomplish more
than one, why then, that’s the berries. What say?
Shall we be away?”

Dave nodded. Then they were off and away into
the blue.

As on that other day, the sky was magnificent—bright
blue, with clouds like huge cotton balls floating
through it. Dave could not recall a moment in
his life he had enjoyed so much. There was the thrill
of speeding through space at three hundred and better
miles an hour, and of looking down upon a world
that was entirely new to him. Added to this—a real
dash of red pepper—was the possibility that they
might—just might bump into an enemy craft. Did
he wish the last? He could not tell. Flying was
strange. It was like a game, basketball or football—you
went into it cold. As your blood warmed, a certain
reckless daring came over you. You didn’t will
it, perhaps did not, in your sober moments, so much
as want it. It was there, and for the time being you
could but yield to its urge.

Today it was just like that. Now diving into a
fleecy cloud, they were lost to the entire world. But
not for long. Like a dove flying from a cloud in a
picture postcard, they glided once more into the
bright sunshine.

Little patches and squares, forests, fields, homesteads,
lovely villages all lay beneath them.

Seized with a sudden impulse, Dave spoke hoarsely
into his mouthpiece: “Let me take her for a minute.”
Ten seconds later he was working the joystick
and Applegate, like an old lady in a wheelchair,
was lolling back in his place.

But not for long. Suddenly Applegate straightened
up, shaded his eyes, stared straight ahead,
reached for his field glass, looked again, then said in
a cheerful voice:

“See that long white cloud over to the left?”

“Ye—yes.” Dave’s heart pounded, he scarcely
knew why.

“Swing over into it, then stay in it, going straight
down it toward the channel. It must be all of four
miles long. I—I rather smell a Hun.”

Dave obeyed instructions. The world was again
lost to view.

Their journey along that cloud could scarcely
have lasted two minutes, but to Dave that seemed a
long, long hour. What was beyond the other end of
the cloud? Something, he was sure. Did it mean a
fight? He hadn’t counted on that. This was not his
war. Was he sorry? He did not know. The ways of
a human mind are past finding out.

Then, as if their plane had given a sudden leap,
they were out of the cloud. And there, off a little
to the right, was a dark spot against the blue of the
sky.

The Lieutenant made one gesture, a stiff arm,
pointing. That was all.

They were a full ten minutes coming within
striking distance of that large plane. Every second
of that exciting race Dave expected his companion
to take over his controls, and all the time he remained
silent, impassive.

At last, in a calm, even tone, he spoke: “That’s
a Dornier. London took a terrific beating last night.
Many women and children were killed or injured.
That Dornier’s been taking pictures so they can find
fresh spots to bomb. His pictures must not reach
Allemond. We must get him.” His words were like
rasping steel. Even then he did not take the controls.

A strange, cold wrath took possession of Dave’s
entire being. “Women and children killed and injured.”
He did not want the Young Lord to take
the controls. And he knew what was to be done. He
wanted to do it, at all risks.

Dropping a little below the flying level of the
Dornier, he added a little speed, then streaked
straight on. His heart was pounding, but his head
was clear. At last, having risen to the attack, they
were within striking distance.

“It’s football,” he was thinking calmly. “That
Dornier’s got the ball. But in the end, it’ll be
thrown for a loss.”

Even as he thought this, the Dornier banked
sharply to soar away to the left. At the same time
the air was ripped,—rat—rat—rat. The side shots
from the Dornier went wild.

Once again they were after the foe. Once more
they were all but upon the enemy’s tail when he
swung sharply to the left. From the Dornier’s side
came a wild burst of gunfire.

“Wasting his slugs,” Applegate exulted. “Keep
right after him.” His hand was on the firing button.
One push and eight guns would spray death,
nearly ten thousand shots a minute. He could wait.
It took just ten seconds when everything was right.

On the tip of Dave’s tongue were the words;
“Here, take the controls.” He did not say them. His
tongue would not waggle that way.

The Dornier took a nose-dive. When he came
out of it the two-seater was with him. He tried
climbing. No use. They could outclimb him, two
to one.

Once again he straightened out, then curved to
the right.

Recalling how so very often a football runner
will repeat a pattern, a dash to the right, one to left,
then straight ahead, Dave worked out a plan. Would
it succeed? Only time, a terribly short time, could
tell.

True to his pattern the Dornier pilot banked first
right, then left, and after that went into a power
dive.

Measuring this dive with greatest accuracy, Dave
managed to come out of his own dive just in time to
glide squarely up on the enemy’s tail.

Squinting through his sight, the Lieutenant
gripped his gun control and waited. Dave found
himself counting, “One—two—three.” Then came
a sudden burst of sound that all but startled him into
a tail spin.

Regaining his control, he shot heavenward.

The Dornier had received a ten-second burst of
gunfire, hundreds of slugs, straight down her pencil-like
fuselage. What would be the result? They
must wait and see.

The Dornier lost its steady, straight onward
flight. It began to smoke, then to lose altitude. Just
then it went into a cloud.

“Dumb!” said Harmon.

Fearlessly Dave drove into that cloud. It was a
long one. A full minute passed, another, and they
were out.

Beyond them now was all clear, blue sky. There
was no spot against that patch of blue.

The Young Lord took the controls. They spiralled
downward toward the sea. At last they were
beneath the cloud. There was nothing hiding there.
But on the surface of the sea was a white spot. It
was not foam. There were no white-caps.

“Tat-tat-tat—Down goes Hun”

“Good!” exclaimed the Young Lord. “We’ll
head for home. If we hurry a bit we’ll be in time
for tea.” And they were.

“We got that Dornier right enough,” the Young
Lord whispered the minute they were on solid
ground again. “But not a word about this! It’s
frightfully irregular, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sure it is,” Dave agreed.

“And after all, it’s not your war,” his companion
added.

“No. Of course not,” Dave agreed. “It’s not my
war.” For the first time in his life those words
seemed a bit strange.

At headquarters Dave asked for coffee and got
it, good coffee served by a bright faced English girl.

He had just taken his first swallow when two
young men entered. At once the Young Lord was
on his feet.

The slim, dark-eyed one of the new arrivals said:
“As you were.” At once tension relaxed.

“Commander Knox,” said the Young Lord, “I
want you to meet my friend Dave Barnes from
America. He thinks he can fly.” He grinned slyly.

“All Americans think that.” The Squad Commander
chuckled. “Didn’t you ever notice that?”

“Yes—yes I have,” the Young Lord agreed. “And
mostly they can’t. But this chap,”—he gave Dave a
quick grin—“I shouldn’t wonder if he could fly. Oh,
just the least little bit.”

“You wouldn’t be spoofing us?” said the red-headed
companion of the Commander. He was
grinning broadly.

“No one could spoof you!” the Young Lord
laughed. “You’ve already been spoofed.”

“Dave,” he said, turning to his companion, “meet
the singing murderer. We call him the Lark because
he sings as he flies. You should hear him roaring
away! He sings ‘On the Road to Mandalay’ while
he swoops down on the tail of some unsuspecting
Messerschmitt and blasts him from the sky.”

“That,” said the Lark without smiling, “may be
a joke. It works for all that. I learned the trick when
I was a boy fishing for salmon in Scotland. If I
could whistle, carrying a tune, while I was landing
a big one, I’d not get excited and I’d land my fish.
It’s the same with the sky fighting. If you can carry
a tune in the thick of it—”

“If you can,” laughed Dave, “then I’ll say you’re
good!”

“He’s right as he possibly can be,” said the Commander.

“The good old Leader of Squadron 73 over in
France used to say: ‘Boys, you may have as many
good points as you like, but two are absolutely necessary:
courage that will stick, and an unfailing
sense of humor. Nothing keeps up a fellow’s sense
of humor better than a song.’

“Guess we’ll have to toddle along.” The Commander
moved away. “Good to have met you,
Barnes. If you can really fly, and I must say you do
look the part, we’ll sign you up just any time you
say.” At that he and the Lark vanished through the
swinging doors.

As Dave stared after them, awed respect was
registered in his eyes. “So he was with Squadron
73!” he murmured.

“Sure was.” Applegate beamed. “In France, all
the way, right through the Blitzkrieg. That was the
fightingest aggregation that ever flew in formation.
They shot down more than a hundred planes for
sure, and sent a likely hundred more limping
home.”

“How many came back to tell the story?” Dave
was visibly impressed.

“Nearly all,” was the reply. “I think they lost
two commissioned and two non-commissioned officers.
That was all.”

“Sayee!” Dave murmured. “Air fighting is almost
as safe as football!”

“Absolutely,” his companion agreed. “Providing
you know your stuff and have been born in the air.”

“And that,” Dave thought, as he started for home
some little time later, “is how I keep out of this
man’s war. I’d better look up the plane schedule to
Lisbon tomorrow.” But would he?

Chapter XI

Cobbler or Spy?

Dave walked toward Ramsey Farm in a thoughtful
mood. Always for him, in the past, the ability to do
a thing well had meant a clear track ahead. “But
now,” he whispered, stopping stock still in the road
to think. With the Young Lord’s help he had accomplished
something that in this war-shattered
land seemed rather more than well worth doing.

There was nothing startling about the part he
had played. Back in America his uncle, a World
War ace, had put him through his paces, that was
all. In a staunch old two-seater they had banked,
rolled, power dived and looped the loop until he
really knew how. What fun it had been! He had not
thought of it as preparation for anything. Yet today,
when the test came, he was prepared. Yes, the
ability to do a thing had always meant “Go ahead.”

“I could do it all again,” he assured himself as
he thought of the day’s adventure.

For a moment more he stood there looking at the
blue sky, white clouds, and gay autumn leaves that
were England at her best. “This is England,” he
whispered, “Bit by bit it is being destroyed by one
man’s hate and lust for power.”

“Damn!” he swore softly. Then he hurried on.

He decided to take the long way home, the road
that ran through Warmington. “Shoemakers,” he
thought, “always have your work finished the second
time, never the first. My boots will be done.”

“Here you are, sir,” said old John, handing out a
neat package and taking the pay. “I ’opes you find
them satisfactory, sir.”

“Oh, I shall, I am sure,” Dave said absent-mindedly.
He was not thinking of the boots. His eyes
were once more upon the young cobbler in the far
corner. As before, his face hidden, he was bent low
over his work.

“I ’opes you’ve ’ad a pleasant afternoon,” said
old John.

“Oh! Very!” said Dave.

“If he only knew,” he murmured with a low
laugh after he had left the shop.

Across the street was the village Pub. Its sign proclaimed
it to be Ye Old Angel Inn. How long did
an angel have to live in order to be considered really
old, Dave asked himself whimsically. He had
thought of angels as being ageless. Perhaps there
weren’t any angels after all. He had once seen a picture
of a French war plane going down in flames,
and of two angels waiting, with hands crossed, to
catch the unhappy pilot as he fell. “Shall I ever be
in need of two angels?” he asked himself dreamily.

He crossed the street to enter Ye Old Angel Inn.
He liked these English Pubs. They were village
clubs. There was about them a pleasant aroma of
beef roasting over an open fire, of hot toddy and
strange English tobacco. He could, he thought,
stand for one more cup of coffee. The weather had
suddenly turned cloudy, damp and cold.

The coffee was good. He lingered over it, then
ordered a second cup.

As he sat there he heard voices. Two villagers
sat at a table in the corner drinking hot toddy.

“I’m tellin’ ye now, James,” one voice rose sharply,
“’e’s nothin’ more nor less than a bloomin’ Jerry.
’E’s a spy, that ’e is.”

“Aw now, Danny,” the other admonished, “you
know what old John told you ’e is. ’E’s ’Ollander,
no more, nor no less. ’Is papers they is all in horder.”

“I know. I know,” Danny agreed petulantly.
“But that don’t make it so. You know as well as I
know ’ow easy as nothin’ it is fer a Jerry to git papers
fixed to suit ’is own self.

“Now look, Jimmy.” Danny’s voice dropped.
“Ye mind the last war. There were our castle,
Warmington Castle, as fine an hedifice as there be
in all Hengland. An’ what ’appens? Ramsey, over at
the farm, ’e ’ires ’imself a Jerry, a prisoner of war ’e
was. ’e treats ’im like a long-lost brother, Ramsey
does. An’ what ’appens? I asks you, what ’appens?”

“It weren’t never proved that it were this Jerry
that signaled to the bloomin’ airplane that come
over an’ blasted the castle,” James protested.

“I know—I know. But who would doubt it?”

And so the argument ended. Dave finished his
coffee, then wandered out into the chill of falling
night. Danny and James had given him fresh food
for serious thought.

Cherry was booked for a return to her subway
studio on the following evening. Dave spent the
greater part of that day teaching her a new song.
He knew the tune and could pick it out for her on
the piano. By great good fortune he found the
words written out in longhand on a scrap of paper
in his Sunday clothes.

“It’s not a new song,” he told her. “In fact, it’s
more than twenty years old. An orchestra leader
named Orrin Tucker dug it out of the file and gave
it to his little five-foot singing doll named Bonnie
Baker. It’s gone across America like a Nebraska
cyclone. This is it:

“Catchy,” said Cherry, beginning to hum it.

Catchy was right, and Cherry was the one person
in all the world to set England on fire with it.

That night in the chill damp of the subway, she
sang it over and over. Next day in the airdromes
and factories, barracks, schools, stores and on the
street, one might hear: “Oh! Johnny! Oh! Johnny!”

The song was made. So too was Cherry. In the
days that followed she was to become the sweetheart
of all England. Newspapers were to print her
picture in color. These pictures were to appear on
the rough board walls of cantonments all over England,
and in the cabins of boats, large and small, sailing
the dangerous North Sea.

She was to be taken up by the nobility. Lady
Perkins, a friend of the Young Lord, who lived in
London, was to make her a part of her household,
with privilege of coming and going as she pleased.

Only now and then did she sleep with some
working girls in the subway. Most nights after the
“all clear” had sounded, she sped away to creep beneath
downy covers in a wing of Lady Perkins’
mammoth old home.

“It’s not that I crave magnificence,” she confided
to Dave, “It’s just that I must have rest. It—well,
you see—it all must seem so simple and easy, my
singing. And it truly is, but,”—she heaved a sigh—“when
it’s all over, I’m a rag.”

“I know,” Dave agreed. “It’s always that way.
The thing you do with apparent ease because you
have yourself under perfect carefree control, is just
the thing that takes it out of you.”

By himself later, Dave recalled words of a great
old poem:

“That,” he told himself, “is just what Cherry can
do. And nothing can ever spoil her.”

If he had quoted from that same poem:

he would have been telling Cherry’s fortune, for
Cherry was to meet with both Triumph and Disaster.

Chapter XII

“The House Is Gone”

It happened, or shall we say began, on a Sunday
night. During the many days previous to this,
things had picked up little by little in Cherry’s subway
radio studio. One evening the little Irish girl
who played the piano had brought in a young fellow
with a shabby violin case under his arm. “Can
you play it?” Cherry asked.

“A little,” was the modest reply.

The young fellow, who had gone through all the
horrors of the Battle of Flanders and Dunkirk, was
Scotch. He could do weird things with that violin.
With it alone he could make you believe that a score
or more of bagpipers were marching down the
street. And when it came to that mellow old Scotch
song:

he could bring a happy tear to many a tired eye. So
he was given a place on the program, and weary
Cherry sang a little less than before.

Other musicians wandered in. Where they all
came from no one will ever know. Next there came
a cellist, then a drummer, two bass viols, two clarinets,
two more violins, a gypsy girl with tambourine
and castanets,—all these and half a dozen others
wandered in. After that they had an orchestra.
There was not an “artist” in the hard and fast meaning
of the word among them all, but they could roll
the barrel, set Johnny loving, swing the chariot low,
roll the old chariot along, and do a hundred other
songs dear to the hearts of the good common people
of old England and to many another who did not
consider himself quite so common.

All this gave Cherry a breathing spell now and
then. But when the members of the orchestra had
each done his bit for just so long, there would come
calls from all down the subway:

“Cherry! Cherry! We want Cherry! We want
the Singin’ Angel.”

The Singin’ Angel, that is what they came at
last to call her. That was because of Sunday nights,
for on that night they left the Old Chariot at home,
put lovin’ Johnny to bed early, rolled the barrel
far back in the corner, and pushed “The Old Rugged
Cross” right out in front.

No one seemed to mind. Indeed they appeared to
love that hour of the week best of all. In times such
as this people cling to their religion. One moment
“Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me” would go rolling on
and on from end to end of the subway.

Some one in the orchestra would start “Throw
Out The Lifeline to danger frought men.”

Then Cherry in her strong young voice would
sing:

“Now!” she would cry. “Everybody sing!”

Yes, religion seemed very real on these Sunday
nights. On this particular night, it was midnight
when Cherry reached Lady Perkins’ home. She
remembered it afterward, for at that very moment
Big Ben was gloriously booming the hour of twelve.

She had walked home alone. It was not far. She
let herself in with her latchkey. The “all clear” had
sounded, so, feeling weary and happy all in one, she
stretched out on her bed fully dressed, and fell
asleep.

She was dreaming of quiet, sleepy hours, with
Flash at her side, while her sheep wandered over the
hillside at Ramsey Farm, when suddenly it seemed
that a mighty thunderstorm had stolen upon her unawares
and that the very hill was being rocked by its
roaring.

She awoke standing in the center of the room.
Her knees trembled so she could scarcely stand.
The floor beneath her vibrated like a ship in a storm.
From all about her came strange crashes like walls
falling one upon another.

“Only three walls remained”

She tried to call, but could only whisper. A narrow
crack of light appeared before her. A board in
the door had been split. She stepped to the door
and opened it. Then, catching herself, she started
back to whisper in dismay:

“It’s gone! The house is gone! Only my room is
here!”

That was not quite true. Of that spacious home
only three rooms remained—her own and two
others. A half-ton bomb had scattered the rest.

Recalling that the French windows of her room
opened out on a court, she sprang to the nearest one.
Then she was out and away.

A weird light from a flare sent down by the enemy
illuminated the street. Once on that street she
began to run. In all her fright and confusion she had
a vague plan. Dave was spending the night with his
uncle. She knew the address. Was it far? She did not
know. All she knew was that somehow she must get
there.

She had gone but a block when she ran squarely
into the arms of a six-foot policeman.

“Here now, Miss! What’s this?” His voice had
a kindly rumble.

“The house!” she cried. “Lady Perkins’ house!
It’s gone!”

“Yes,” he agreed. “It was a terrible bomb. The
firemen are just there now. Thank God Lady Perkins
and all were away.”

“No!” Cherry whispered. “I was there.”

“You?” The Bobby looked her over. “You were
there? And who now might you be?”

“I—I’m Cherry.”

“What? The Singin’ Angel?” He looked her in
the face. “Bless me heart it is now! What do you
know about that! Bless the Lord you are safe.”

“I can’t talk.” The girl’s head drooped. “I can’t
sing. I—I want to go to Dave’s Uncle’s place.” In
her fright she was like a child.

“And where would that be?”

She gave him the address. He read it, then blew
a whistle. A man appeared.

“Jim,” he said, “this is Cherry, the Singin’ Angel.
God’s own child she is.”

“The Singin’ Angel!” Jim’s jaw dropped.

“None other,” said the Bobby. “An’ you’re to
take her to this address. Mind you drive careful,
careful and steady as ye would if it were the Christ
Child you’re ’avin in yer car.”

Jim’s car was old and dilapidated, but to Cherry
it was the latest model of a Rolls Royce and its cushions
as soft as down, for was it not taking her to
her friends?

Arrived at the house, in the presence of Dave’s
tall, gray-haired uncle, she disgraced herself by
throwing herself in Dave’s arms. Then she wept
like a child.

This storm over, she felt better. Two cups of
strong tea revived her spirits but not her voice. She
could only whisper as she said: “Dave, please take me
home, back to the farm.”

“At this hour of the night?” Dave stared.

“I’ll have a car for you at once,” said the kindly
gray-haired uncle. “Dave, my boy, London’s no
place for a girl who has gone through what this girl
has tonight.”

All the way home Dave had an arm about Cherry.
She cuddled close to him, as a scared child would
and they were not ashamed.

Arrived at the farm, they quietly dismissed the
driver. Arousing no one, they sat before the half-burned-out
kitchen fire for a time. When at last
Dave felt the trembling quiver of her shoulders pass
away, he said huskily:

“You’d better turn in for a little sleep.”

“Dave,” she whispered. “My voice is gone. I
can’t sing any more.”

“Fright. That’s all.” Dave tried to reassure her.
“It will come back.”

Would it? He wondered as he watched her make
her way slowly, dreamily, like a sleep-walker, up
the stairs.

Chapter XIII

Lull Before the Storm

Until one P. M. the next day Cherry was lost to
the world. At last she stirred beneath her rare old
English blankets, opened her eyes, stared about her,
tried to remember, then began trying to forget.

In slippers and bathrobe she crept down to the
kitchen where the cook served her with very strong
tea and a small, delicious meat pie. After that she
curled up in the big chair before the fire and once
again fell asleep.

It was only on the morning of the second day that
she found courage to face life as it was. The home
in London in which she had been given royal welcome
was gone. She could barely whisper. Would
her voice come back? What of her people there
in the subway? The little Irish girl, the Scotch
fiddler, and all the rest, were they carrying on?

“Yes,” she assured herself as a fresh glow of hope
overflowed her being, “They are right there doing
their bit.”

Breakfast over, with Flash at her heels, she once
again led her small flock of sheep out to the frostbitten,
sunlit pasture. There, after spreading a
blanket on a rock, she lay for a long time staring up
at the sun. It seemed to her, at that moment, that all
that terrible war was but a bad dream, that it never
had happened, that all the world was as much at
peace as was her sunny pasture.

The drone of airplane motors, followed by machine-guns
tearing at the sky drove this illusion
from her mind. The war was real, terribly real. It
must be faced with eyes open and mind alert.

It was there on the rock that her brother found
her. “So they drove you out of London? The dirty
Huns!” he exclaimed, dropping to a seat beside her.
“Cherry!” There were lines of fierce determination
in his face, “I’m going to join up with the Royal Air
Force.”

For a full minute she made no reply, just sat staring
at the cloudless sky. Perhaps she was thinking of
the good times they had had together, fishing and
swimming in summer, tobogganing and skiing in
winter. And on rainy days there had been games
before the open fire.

“Yes,” she whispered at last, as color flooded back
into her face, “you must join up, Brand. Everyone
must. Those marvelous people, the women, the
children must come out of the subway. They must
sleep again in their own homes in peace.”

“I—I’m glad you feel that way.” Brand swallowed
hard. “That—that’s going to make it easier.
You and I have been pals, Cherry, all these years.

“I’ll tell you,” his voice picked up. “It’s a great
secret. We’ve been training, Dave and I, training
for two weeks. Training like everything.”

“D—Dave,” she whispered. “Why! He’s an
American! This is not his war.”

“That’s what he thought,” Brand laughed low.
“Perhaps he still thinks it, in a way. But he’ll join
up. You wait! The young Lord says he will, and he
usually knows.”

“The—the young Lord?” Cherry whispered.

“Yes, there’s part of the secret. He’s had two
week’s leave. He’s been training us in the back pasture.
Of course we’ve each done a lot of flying but
this is special, regular fighting stuff, parachutes and
everything. And, Cherry, cross your heart and hope
to die if I tell you?”

“Cross—cross my heart.”

“All right. Dave’s already been in a day fight. He
and the young Lord got a Dornier! Boy, that was
great! I wish I’d been in it with them.”

“Dave in an air battle?” The girl stared.

“Certainly was, and did his part nobly.”

While Cherry sat listening, breathless, Brand described
Dave’s adventure in the clouds that day
over England and the channel.

“Dave never whispered a word about it to me,”
she said when the story was told. Her shining eyes
showed that the American boy stood out in her
mind as a hero.

“Dave can keep a secret,” said Brand. “That’s
why we all like him.”

“But you shouldn’t try to drag him into the war,”
Cherry replied thoughtfully. “England is not his
country.”

“He’ll decide about that for himself when the time
comes.” Brand sent a small rock skipping down the
hill. “He talked it all over with his uncle in London
two weeks ago. His uncle advised him to get all the
flying experience he could. He thinks America will
be in the war soon. Then Dave will be in it for sure.
Great old boy, his uncle, a real sport. He was in the
other war, an ace flyer. Thinks the air service is
trumps. And who wouldn’t?” Brand’s face shone
with enthusiasm. “Boy it’s great! All of it.” He
sprang to his feet. “Even baling out. First time I
stepped into space with a parachute on my back I
thought my heart would jump out of my mouth.
But when the old silk took hold and I drifted slowly
down, Baby! That was swell! I’ve baled out twenty
times since then—just practice you know. Now it’s
as natural as swimming.”

“Brand?” Cherry whispered. “I’ve lost my voice.
They say it will come back. I—I don’t know. Can’t
do my share. You’ll have to carry on. How I wish
I’d been born a boy!”

“Buck up, old girl!” Brand exclaimed cheerfully,
“you’ll be right back in there again before you
know it.

“And even if you aren’t,” he added soberly,
“you’ve already done more than any other gal in
Merry England to help folks keep heads up and
hopes high. That’s a whole great big lot.”

At that he went marching back down the hill.

“Great doings these last two weeks,” he thought
to himself. They had worked hard all of them.
Truck loads of Brussels sprouts, turnips, carrots, apples
and pears had been sent rumbling on their way
to London. All their winter’s supplies had been safely
stowed away. Beside this they had found time
each day for two hours of practice flying. “There’s
mother,” he thought soberly. “Somehow, I’ll have
to win her over.” Had he but known it his hated
enemies, the Jerries, were to give him a lift with his
mother.

Dave too had been thinking of his mother. As he
sat by the open fire with Cherry that evening, he
said:

“Just had a letter from my mother.”

“I hope she’s well,” Cherry replied in her polite,
English manner.

“Oh! Always!” Dave laughed. “She’s closing our
New England home and going with my aunt to
Florida. She has an independent income so she gets
about.”

“What does one do in Florida?” Cherry asked.

“Oh, bask in the sun until you’re brown, swim,
play tennis, go tarpon fishing,” Dave drawled lazily.

“Sounds rather dreamy.”

“It is, and unreal too. Do you know?” Dave exclaimed,
“I haven’t thought of it before but since I
came to England I’ve really just started to live.”

“I—I’m glad,” Cherry whispered. “I’ve often
thought—” She broke off to listen.

“Enemy planes,” she whispered.

“Bombers!” Dave nodded.

“Sound as if they were right overhead. And they
seem so low.” Cherry shuddered.

A half minute followed without a sound save the
tick-tock of the tall old clock and the drone overhead.

Then, of a sudden, with a throaty whisper ten
times more startling than a cry, Cherry sprang from
her seat.

The stillness of the countryside had been shattered
by a crash that appeared to come from their
own farmyard. Truth was, a bomb had fallen on
their village two miles away.

Chapter XIV

A Dungeon Night

There came a second blast. A deathlike silence followed.
This was soon enough shattered by the anxious
call of the cook, demanding to know if all
were well and by the excited cry of the children.
Then, from outside, came the honk of an auto horn.

The door swung open. A voice shouted:

“All out for a moonlit visit to the ancient Norman
castle.”

It was the young Lord Applegate. “Pile into the
car, all of you.” His tone was sharp, commanding.
“This is going to be bad. A dozen Jerry bombers
circling around looking for targets, and the moon
making everything bright as day. Your broad roof
shows up all too clearly.”

Dashing to the corner of the room, Dave seized
two buckets of water to drench the fire. They were
to recall this act later, with thanksgiving.

In an incredibly short time they were all crowded
into the big car and away.

Through the back window of the racing car
Alice caught a fleeting glimpse of her home, the
only home she had ever known. Standing there in
the cool, shadowy moonlight, with great trees
banked behind it, the old house seemed a thing of
indescribable beauty. Yet the word that came to the
girl’s mind was “lonely”. For a space of seconds it
seemed to her that she must leap from the car and
race back to be with the dear old house in its great
time of trial.

This was but a fleeting fancy. A turn in the road
shut the place from her view. She heard the young
Lord saying:

“I’ve fixed up an air raid shelter in the dungeon
of the castle. It’s thirty steps down, walled over with
massive rocks. Even had an oil heater installed.
We’ll be safe and comfortable there.”

“Safe and comfortable,” Alice thought angrily.
“In an insane, upside down world such as this, who
wanted to be comfortable and safe?”

This too she realized was a wrong slant on life.
“Comfort and safety,” she assured herself, “are two
of the great necessities of life. For, on the morrow,
there is work to be done.” At that she did not know
the half of it.

Warmington Castle, a great, square mass of masonry,
looming a hundred feet above the meadows,
greeted them as they took one more curve in the
road. A minute more and there they were.

With the droning of heavy motors still in their
ears, they hurried down one narrow stairs, then
another, to find themselves in a rather large windowless
room where candles blinked at them from
every corner and an oil stove glowed warmly up at
them.

Lady Applegate, a frail, nervous little lady,
greeted them with jittery handshakes and an uncertain
smile. Her husband had died from wounds received
in that other war. And now this! “Poor
soul,” thought Alice.

As if to guard her from bombs, the Lady’s servants,
butler, cook, and two maids, sat clustered
about her.

Dave was not long in the dungeon. Having
wished to witness an air-raid he took the thing by
the bit and hurried back up the stairs. Flash, the
collie, it would seem, was of the same mind. He followed
him out.

As if in search of fresh targets, just any roof
gleaming up from the moonlit night, giant planes
were still circling. Dave strained his eyes for a
glimpse of them.

“That’s the plague of it,” he grumbled. “If you
could see them you could blast them from the sky
even at night.”

Backing away, he studied the mass of masonry
above him. More a fort than a castle, it had stood
there for hundreds of years. Bombs had shattered it
more than twenty years before. But the tower, with
stairway leading to the top, still stood. He was considering
climbing those stairs for a better view of
the sky, when, a sudden discovery left him standing
there quite motionless. From the very top of that
tower had come a flash of light.

“The dog had found the Fugitive”

“Spy!” His mind registered like a recording machine.
“Flashing signals!”

That was enough. Two steps at a time, with the
collie at his heels, he went up those stairs. What was
he to do? There were times when he believed in
revelations straight from the Divine Will. He would
know what was to be done when the time came.

Approaching the top, he went on tiptoe. Unfortunately
Flash could not know the need for breathless
silence. He uttered a low growl.

Instantly there came a crash. Something had
fallen. There was the sound of shuffling footsteps.

The tower, a mass of standing pillars and tumbled
stone, offered a splendid hiding place. One might
hide from a man, not from a dog. Dave had, for the
instant, forgotten the dog. Springing forward, he
all but fell over some large, dark object. Bending
over, he picked the thing up. “Some instrument,
perhaps a—”

His thoughts broke off. The dog had found the
fugitive. There came a muttered guttural curse, a
sound of a solid impact, the howl of the dog, and
after that scurrying footsteps.

At that instant the instrument in Dave’s hand
gave forth a flood of light. The light fell full upon
the fleeting figure of a man. The man turned half
about. Having caught the fellow’s profile in bold
relief, Dave recognized him instantly. And then the
fugitive, with the dog at his heels, plunged down
the narrow, winding stairs.

Dave was fast, but not fast enough. Once, as he
raced down those stairs, he caught a glimpse of man
and dog. Then he tripped over a broken step,
plunged downward, hit his head against the wall,
was out for thirty seconds, and so lost the race.

He arrived at the castle door just in time to see
two fleeting shadows, a man and a dog, lose themselves
in the deeper shadow of a small, low stone
structure fifty yards or more from the castle.

As he stood balanced on the threshold he suddenly
became conscious of a tremendous roar overhead.
It seemed that one of those tri-motored
bombers must crash against the castle’s tower. And
then?

In sudden terror he fairly tumbled down two
flights of stairs, banged against the massive iron-bound
door to the dungeon, tumbled through and
slammed the door behind him, just as a terrific blast
set the castle shuddering from towers to dungeon.

In the moments that followed they could hear the
dull thud of masonry falling. But it all seemed very
far away, like part of a bad dream.

There came a second crash, a third. Then all was
silent and the ghosts that perhaps haunted this dungeon,
spirits of those who suffered here in solitary
confinement centuries ago, might, Dave supposed,
walk in peace.

It was Alice who broke that silence. Her voice
was as calm and restful as it would have been were
she seated before the fire in her own kitchen. She
was speaking to the two waifs from London’s slums.
They were curled up beside her on an ancient stone
bench.

“Yes, children,” was her answer to a whispered
question, “Louise and Charlotte, the two lady spies,
lived and worked as spies for a long time. They performed
many daring feats.

“You know,” she went on, and they were all listening
now, “Louise and Charlotte always had messages
to carry across the line. In places there was a
river to cross. Always there was the terrible wall
of barbed wire and traps. Louise, who could not
swim and dared not trust a boat, went across the
river many times on a large chopping bowl.”

“Funny little boat,” Peggy whispered.

“They used strange devices for hiding their messages.”
Alice had a good memory. “Once when
Louise was arrested she threw a black ball of yarn
into the brush at the side of the road but held to the
end until it had landed. The message was wound
inside the ball of yarn.”

“They didn’t find it. That was good!” Tillie
whispered. “Go on! What else?”

“Once the two girl spies seemed to be going on a
picnic. They were munching bread and sausages as
they marched along. Once more they were
searched. Nothing was found. The message was in
Louise’s sausage.

“Oh yes,” Alice drew a heavy sigh. “Those two
girls did marvelous things for their country. They
set up a secret radio and sent over messages. They
trained carrier pigeons to take messages across the
line. Daring Frenchmen were carried over the line
in airplanes to spy out the enemy’s defenses. Louise
helped them.

“And after that,” the story teller sighed more
deeply, “there came darker days. The enemy
counter-spies wove a web of evidence about them.
They were arrested. Evidence was produced. They
were court-martialed. The sentence was: ‘For
Louise, death. For Charlotte, death.’”

“And—and were they really shot?” Peggy whispered
with a shudder.

“Not yet.” Alice’s voice was low. “Their prison
keeper had come to respect and love them as if they
were his children.

“‘Poor souls’, he said, ‘So they have condemned
you to die? Ask what you will. It shall be granted.’

“When the day for their execution was near,”
Alice went on, “they requested that they might
spend their last night on earth together.

“The keeper carried this request to the governor.
He returned with a radiant face. ‘He has refused it,’
he whispered to Louise. Thank God! It means that
they will not shoot you in the morning. Otherwise
he would not have denied you.”

“Oh, good!” Peggy breathed.

“That morning,” Alice went on after a time,
“another beautiful girl, Gabrielle Petiti, was to be
shot as a spy. Louise and Charlotte heard her walking
to the place of her execution and they heard her
cry: ‘Salut! O mon dernier matin!’ (Salute, O my
last morning!)”

“Oh!” Peggy whispered.

“And were—” Tillie began.

“No, Louise and Charlotte were not shot.” There
was a catch in Alice’s voice. “Because of their loyalty
and great bravery they were sent to prison for
life.

“Two months and two days before the great war
ended Louise died in prison. Charlotte lived on and
went back to keeping shop. Perhaps she’s living
still.”

“And now perhaps she’s a spy again.” Peggy
shuddered with ecstasy. “I’m going to be a spy
some day.”

“Alice, my dear,” said Lady Applegate, “that’s
no story to tell to a child.”

But Tillie whispered very low, “I—I think it is
wonderful, Alice. I—I’d like to kiss you.” And she
did.

Just then there came a scratching at the door. “It’s
Flash!” Cherry cried. “We’ve all forgotten him.”

As she threw the door open the dog went creeping
across the floor to curl up, still whining low, at
Alice’s feet.

Chapter XV

Until the Very End

For sometime the dog lay quietly at Alice’s feet.
At last, once more at ease, he rose, stretched himself,
walked twice across the dungeon floor, then, marching
up to Dave whined low.

“What’s this?” Dave demanded. “You want to
go out again? Haven’t you had enough for one
night?”

In answer the dog walked to the door, then
whined again.

“O. K.,” said Dave “I don’t hear any motors. Perhaps
the big show is over. Let’s get going.”

“I’ll go with you,” Brand said quietly.

Arrived at the outer castle door, Dave took one
look, then let out a low whistle. “Old boy,” he said
in a hoarse voice, looking down at the dog, “how
did you escape?”

“What do you mean, escape?” Brand asked.

“Look!” Dave pointed to a dark spot in the
brightly lighted meadow. “See that black hole?
What stood there two hours ago?”

“Say!” Brand stared. “A stone building stood
there.”

“But then,” he added after a thought, “what does
it matter? It was just an empty old out building.”

“I’m not so sure it was empty,” Dave replied soberly.
“Last time I looked at that building a man and
a dog were going through the door. That was less
than two minutes before the first blast. There,” his
was a dramatic gesture, “question is, where’s the
man? If he is at all any more.”

“Stop talking in riddles,” Brand’s voice rose.
“This has been a bad night.”

“Sit down and I’ll tell you,” Dave invited as he
dropped to a place on the well-worn door sill.

The story of his visit to the top of the tower both
astonished and thrilled his companion.

“And the fellow who went into that shack,” Dave
added with a flourish of his arm, “was none other
than the assistant to old John, the shoemaker.
What’s more, his real name is Nicholas Schlitz.”

“No!” Brand sprang to his feet. “It can’t be!”

“It is!” Dave insisted. “Remember that picture
you took from the wrecked plane? The picture of
two young fellows?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“They were clear enough. You couldn’t make a
mistake if you saw one of those men. I saw Nicholas
tonight, by the bright light of his own signal
torch. I couldn’t be mistaken. In the shoe shop he
was always bending over, half hiding his face. Tonight
I really saw him.”

“Where’s his signal torch?” Brand asked suddenly.

“That’s right,” Dave sprang up. “Where is it?
In my excitement I might have—

“Yes. Here it is.” He drank in a deep breath of
relief. “I must have put it down. I—I was afraid he
had come back for it.”

“He never will,” said Brand.

“You can’t be sure,” Dave replied thoughtfully.
“Flash went in with him. If Flash escaped, how
about Nicholas Schlitz, the spy? After all, there
were three blasts. There was some time between the
first and last. Who’s going to say whether the first
or last made that hole out there?”

To this question Brand found no answer.

Brand stood up, gazed at the sky, north, south,
east and west, listened for a full minute, then said:
“Storm’s over. Let’s see if we can’t get them all to
go home.”

It took little persuading to get Alice and Cherry
started. Soon they were all on their way.

It was only as they rounded the last curve that
brought them in full view of their home that the full
significance of Heinie’s work that night burst upon
them.

They greeted the scene that lay before them in
tragic silence. The home that had housed the Ramsey
tribe for a dozen generations was a wreck. A
bomb had landed on the east end and torn it completely
away. Gone was the prim little parlor with
its very formal furniture, gone the cozy dining room
with its array of ancient willow-ware and rare glass-ware.
Gone was the big four-poster bed on which
Cherry and Alice had slept since they were tiny
tots, and gone all the countless treasures that had
adorned their rooms.

“Le—t—, let’s have a look.” Brand climbed out of
the car. He was trying to be nonchalant about the
whole affair and making a bad job of it.

Dave climbed out after him. Then, after ten seconds
of listening, he flashed on the spy’s powerful
light. At once the whole wrecked place stood out
in bold relief.

By some miracle the great chimney had withstood
the shock. The fireplace had been blown clean of
ashes.

“Dave, you were a gem.” These were Cherry’s
first words. “If there had been a spark of fire!”

“It’s a miracle that anything is left,” said Applegate.
“Of course you’ll all come up to live with us.”

“Oh, no.” Alice spoke slowly. “The children
would worry Lady Applegate. I—I’m sorry. We
still have furniture and cooking things. I’m sure
quite enough. And there’s the Hideout up at the
foot of the hill. It’s quite large and hidden among
the trees. We may,” she hesitated, “may need to
borrow a few dishes. We—we don’t seem to have
any.”

“There are whole china cupboardsful at our
house. I’ll have a car full of them down first thing in
the morning.

“Sure that’s all?” the young Lord asked anxiously.

“No, not quite.” Cherry smiled a shy smile as she
whispered hoarsely. “I—I’m quite sure that Alice’s
dream-robes and mine have gone to grace the
Milky Way.”

“That also shall be attended to,” said the young
Lord, after they had enjoyed a good laugh.

The trusty old farm truck was backed out of its
shed. Beds, chairs, blankets, pots, pans, and quantities
of food were piled on. Then they rattled away
up the hill to the Hideout.

After building a fire on the wide old hearth they
put things in such order as they could for the night.

After the others had been made comfortable and
were asleep Dave and Cherry still sat by the fire.

“We’re always last,” Cherry whispered hoarsely.
“It takes time for our nerves to run down. They’re
like a cheap old alarm clock, I guess.” She laughed.

“That’s it,” Dave agreed.

“Brand and I are signing up tomorrow,” he said
after a time.

“I thought Brand would, after this night. Who
wouldn’t?” Her whisper was tense with emotion.
“It’s his country. But why you? It’s not yours.”

“In America,” Dave replied soberly, “we have a
saying, ‘A man’s home is where he hangs his hat’.
Your home has been mine. It has been bombed. And
so—”

He did not finish. Just sat there staring at the fire.
“There’s a lot more to it than that,” he went on
after a time. “It’s easy enough to say, ‘It’s not my
war’, when you’re far away. But when you are here,
when you see how this war is being fought, defenseless
women and children who never harmed anyone
being killed and country homes bombed. Good
God! How can you help wanting to fight?

“And there’s still more to it,” he added after a
moment’s silence. “This flying sort of gets you. I’ve
been within its grip since the first time I went up.

“And flyer fighting.” He took a long breath. “It’s
like our American football. It’s a game. The other
fellow has the ball. You go after him. You have the
ball. He goes after you. You dodge this way and
that. You stiff arm him if he gets close. You lean like
the Tower of Pisa, you zigzag and weave like a sapling
in the wind. Flyer fighting is like that.”

“But the score?” Cherry whispered.

“Ah, yes,” Dave murmured. “The score must
always be heavy on your side.”

They were silent. At last Cherry whispered:
“I seem to hear applause, the way you hear it on
the radio. Per—perhaps it’s the applause of angels.
Perhaps the applause is for you. Anyway, here’s
wishing you luck.” She put out a slender hand to
seize his in a quick, nervous grip.

A quarter hour later the girl was beneath the
blankets beside her sister and Dave, rolled in a thick,
soft rug before the fire, was fast asleep.

Chapter XVI

Fiddlin’ Johnny

Two nights later they were all seated about the fire
in the Hideout. Their new home was small but not
too crowded for company. Young Lord Applegate
and two of his flying buddies were there. Beside the
Lord, whom Dave had met some days before, there
was a flyer they had nicknamed Fiddlin’ Johnny.
Johnny was slender, fair-haired and dreamy-eyed.
“Just the sort that doesn’t seem to belong in the air,”
Applegate had said to Dave. “But he’s got a real
record. You’d be surprised.”

“Give us a tune, Johnny,” Brand urged, as Alice’s
tea warmed their souls.

“Oh, all right!” Johnny rose awkwardly. “I’m
not much of a fiddler, but anything to please.”
After blowing on a strange little pipe, he tuned
his violin, then was away to a good start.

The moment his bow slid across the strings
Cherry knew they were in for a rare treat. Paying
little attention to his audience nor even to their
applause, Johnny launched into a series of quaint,
melodious, old tunes. Like a slow-flowing river he
drifted from one to another and yet another. All
unconscious of those about him, he played on and
on. He appeared to play not for them but for the
few birds lingering among bare branches of wind-lashed
trees outside, or perhaps to the angels in
heaven.

“Oh!” Cherry breathed, when at last he returned
his violin to its battered case. “Why didn’t you tell
me?” She turned to the young Lord. “Why didn’t
you bring him to one of our subway songfests?”

“Johnny!” The young Lord laughed. “He’d
never remember when to stop.”

“Stop!” the girl exclaimed in her hoarse whisper.
“Who would want him to stop? That—why that
was divine.”

“Oh! Thank you! Thank you!” Johnny’s face
flushed.

“He’s just the same when he’s in the air fighting,”
said the young Lord. “Flies as if he were in a dream
and never thinks to stop. He—”

Suddenly he broke off. Someone had turned on
the short-wave radio. It was low. Reaching over, he
turned it louder.

“Get an earful of this.” His lips were curled in
scorn.

The man on the radio was saying in fairly good
English, “The quality of the British fighters is
laughable.”

“How do you mean?” a voice on the radio asked.

“That’s Helmuth Wick, the boasting Hun,” the
young Lord whispered.

“They merely try to stay out of our reach, those
English fighters,” said the boasting German pilot.
“This shows that the best English pilots have already
been shot down. They fire furiously but
never hit anything. It must make them very
annoyed.”

“Well, thank you, Major Wick,” said the interviewer
on the air. “That’s all we have had
time for now. Nice to have had you with us.”

“That broadcast is for America,” the young Lord
explained. “It is nice they had him with them tonight.
He won’t be with them long. We’re all after
him. No one loves a boaster. Besides, he’s a dirty
fighter.”

“And does he boast!” The Lark put in. “Claims
fifty planes shot down, or is it sixty. No matter. He’s
head of a flight and sees to it that he stays ahead. One
of his fighters always protects him from behind. If
he sees one of our planes that’s shot up and wobbling,
he just steps in and finishes them off. And
that’s number forty-seven, or fifty-seven. Or
what—”

“We caught up with him once,” the young Lord
laughed. “The Lark here downed the man who
protected him from behind. I would have polished
him off right then but I got a slug in my motor. Oil
started spurting. So I had to make a crash landing.

“Too bad, Johnny wasn’t with us,” he added
with a good-natured laugh. “Johnny’d been up
there fighting yet.”

“I’ll be with you next time,” Fiddlin’ Johnny
said, and he did not laugh. “Tomorrow,” he went
on, “we’ll be up with the dawn. The O. C. told me
that just before I left. Said we could go up in five
formation.”

“Who?” Dave sat up quick.

“You’ll be in on it,” Johnny grinned. “You and
Brand. Only the O. C. said we were to watch and
see that you don’t do anything rash.”

“You watch them! That’s a joke.” The Lark gave
Johnny a slap on the shoulder. “All you can see
when you’re in the air is crosses and swastikas.”

“All the same,” the young Lord insisted, “Johnny’s
one swell little fighter.”

A half hour later they were gone, leaving Cherry
to wonder how many of them would return, and
how soon.

At dawn five Spitfires left the landing field. They
flew in formation, first the young Lord, then the
Lark. After these came Dave and Brand. Fiddlin’
Johnny brought up the rear.

It was a beautiful morning. Red still streaked the
eastern sky. Did they see the sky? Perhaps Johnny
did. He saw and heard everything that was beautiful.
Dave did not see the sky. He saw only his instrument
board, thought only of that which might
be ahead. For they were the dawn patrol. And out
of many a dawn, when the thin clouds were still red
and gold, had come death. Dave shuddered at the
thought but kept straight on his course.

Of a sudden he caught the young Lord’s voice in
the phone. It was high and cheerful as he shouted:

“Enemy ahead. Let’s tap in.”

‘Tap in’, Dave knew meant ‘have a good time.’
Would they have a good time? Would they? He
wondered. Then, as if he had taken a breath of pure
oxygen, his spirits soared. Have a good time? Why
not? This was a game. In this game one must have a
good time or die.

They were putting on speed. At first he did not
see the enemy. Then he saw them all too well. Five
Messerschmitts came zooming out of a thin cloud.
The rising sun struck their wings and turned them
to burnished silver.

“Whoops!” shouted the Lark. “Up and at them,
boys!”

In a low, sober note the young Lord said, “Boys
that’s the bragging Hun, Wick, or I’m a liar!”

“Correct!” shouted the Lark. “His identical
formation, V shape, one behind on his right, three
behind on the left. In a scrap he’s safe. Perfect, I’d
say for a hero.” Then in a roaring voice this red-headed
pilot sang, “It’s a long way to Tipperary.
It’s a long way to go.”

Dave didn’t want to sing. Truth was, he could
not have said a word. His tongue at that instant was
glued to the roof of his mouth. Only the night before
a veteran fighter had said to him, “Wick may
be a coward. I wouldn’t doubt that. But he’s been a
long time in the air. And that means just one thing,
he knows how to pick brave men to do his fighting
for him.”

“Brave men,” Dave whispered as he clutched his
‘joy stick’ with a firmer grip. Then, through his radio
headset, above the roar of motors, he caught a
familiar sound. It was one of the tunes Fiddlin’
Johnny had played back there in the Hideout. It
was “Londonderry Air.” Startled, as if expecting
to see the strange boy fiddling as he flew, he
glanced back. Johnny was in his place, all right,
staring straight ahead.

“Whistling!” Dave murmured. “How do they
do it?”

“Those Messerschmitts are looking for bombers,
not fighters,” he told himself. “Haven’t seen us yet.”

The young Lord barked an order into his receiver.
“We’ll climb into the sun, then drop down
upon them.”

They climbed. They circled until the sun was at
their backs. Then, with motors booming, they
swept down upon the enemy.

With a sudden burst of speed the Messerschmitts
scattered. Two planes alone remained in formation.

“That will be Wick and his bravest guard,” Dave
told himself as a thrill coursed up his spine.

He was all for the fight now. Gladly he would
have followed that pair, but it had been agreed that
in a case of this kind the flight leader and the Lark,
most experienced men of the flight, should step in
where danger called most loudly.

With the hot blood of battle at last coursing in
his veins, Dave went after a single, fleeing Messerschmitt.

He was faster than the enemy. Now a mile lay
between them, now a half mile, a quarter. The
enemy darted this way, then that. “Trying to shake
me off,” Dave muttered. He was thinking at that
moment of their shattered home. He should have
sweet revenge.

He was all but upon the Messerschmitt. One
more burst of speed. Now it was time to press the
button. One thousand shots a minute! No! He’d
better drop a little, to come up from below. Three
hundred and fifty miles an hour. This was life.

Suddenly the air was torn by the rip and rattle of
machine-gun fire, not his fire but another’s. Slugs
tore into his right wing. Gripping his emergency
boost, he set his plane banking madly to the left.
Forty seconds of this, then he let go that emergency
lever.

“Shots tore into his right wing”

Standing on one wing, he executed a mad whirl,
then righted himself.

“What had happened?” As his eyes swept the
sky he heard again that weird whistle, the Fiddler’s,
doing “Londonderry Air.”

Next instant he spotted the Whistler. Right on
the tail of a plane, he was at that very instant gripping
the firing button. Once again the sky was torn
with the haunting rip-rip-rip that spelled death.

What effect did the fiddler’s shots have upon the
enemy? Dave was not to know, at least not for a
long time. At that instant he caught sight of a Messerschmitt
zooming up from behind and below his
comrade. He watched with horror as a great burst
of fire seemed to blot Fiddlin’ Johnny from the sky.

One second the Messerschmitt was there. The
next it was gone. With sinking heart Dave saw
Fiddlin’ Johnny’s plane go into a spin, then spiral
down, down until it was lost in a cloud.

He listened. Save for the roar of his own motor,
a muffled roar it was now, he caught no sound.
The whistle was dead. But what of the whistler?

Not until then did Dave become conscious of his
own motor. He was losing altitude. His hand was
brown with oil. His motor had been hit, perhaps
more than once. Just when a Messerschmitt came
zooming at him he slipped into a cloud.

He was thinking hard and fast now. He was out
of the fight, that was sure. Was he too far out over
the ocean to make landing before his motor died?
Where was land? A glance at his compass, a slow
half-swing about, then he flew straight ahead.

He was losing altitude faster now. In vain did he
attempt to get more power from the motor.

There was the sea, and there, seeming far, far
away, was land. He’d never make it. A cold, calm
sea lay beneath him. How long could one live in
that water? He’d have a try. Unsnapping his safety
belt, he waited. How long before his ship sank? Not
long, he guessed.

Then his eye caught something on the surface of
the sea. A boat? Perhaps. Didn’t look quite like that.
At least it was fairly large and it floated.

Swinging half about, he went into a slow spiral,
that would land him, he hoped, close to that mysterious,
floating gray spot.

It did. Leaping from his plane, he did a slow
crawl, waiting to see if his plane would sink. Three
minutes more and it was gone.

Turning, he swam toward that floating thing.
What was it? He could not tell. All he knew was
that once he reached it he would escape from the
bitter, biting chill of the sea.

Chapter XVII

Playing War

Meantime the young Lord had gone streaking
after the self-appointed ace of the Huns and his
most trusted guard. The Lark and Brand had remained
in formation behind their leader. A fast and
furious race had followed. The Nazis had climbed
to dizzy heights. Turning on the oxygen, the young
Lord and the Lark followed on their tails, but always
a little too far behind for attack.

Unaccustomed to the climb, Brand was thinking
of dropping out. Turning to look back, he caught
his breath, stared again, then leveled off for greater
speed. He had seen Fiddlin’ Johnny go into a spin
and had read in this disaster for his good pal Dave.
He went to the rescue but too late. By the time he
reached the scene both Dave and pursuer had vanished
into the clouds.

Swinging about, he searched the sky for the
young Lord and his fighting companion.

“There! There they are!” he exclaimed excitedly.
“They win!” He was just in time to see an enemy
plane go streaking down all in flames. At the
same instant, some distance away, he saw a second
enemy craft vanish into a cloud.

“Tough luck,” the young Lord grumbled into
his speaker as Brand came up. “We got Wick’s
favorite guard but the big boaster got away. Well,
better luck next time. Where’s Dave and the Fiddler?”

“Johnny’s gone for good.” Brand’s voice was low
and solemn. “He seemed a real fellow. I—I’m sorry.
He went down in a spin, quite out of control. He
can’t have come out of it. It’s taps for him.”

“Taps for poor old Johnny.” No more shouting
today for The Lark. The flight’s scant triumph had
cost them too dearly.

“I lost Dave in a cloud,” Brand went on. “I—I
don’t know about him.”

“We’ll drop down and have a look,” said the
young Lord. They did have a look. They fairly
scoured the sea. All that met the eye was wide
stretches of leaden, grey sea—that and a lone flock
of wild ducks streaking away to the south.

“Ducks. Little old wild things,” The Lark grumbled.
“Got more sense than humans.”

And so, with heavy hearts, they turned their
planes landward. After that not a word was spoken
until their Spitfires bump-bumped on the landing
field.

That same afternoon Cherry walked alone to the
village. She wanted time to think. And, indeed
there was need for thinking. That morning her
mother had driven out and had taken her to the city.
There they visited the office of a famous specialist.

“This,” said Mrs. Ramsey, “is Cherry.”

“Cherry, the Singing Angel!” exclaimed the doctor.
“I am surely glad to meet you. It’s a wonderful
work you are doing.”

“That I was doing,” Cherry whispered hoarsely.

“Why! What’s up? Voice troubling you? Let’s
have a look! We’ll fix it up right away.”

After a long and painstaking examination the
good doctor looked at her with trouble in his eyes.
“Nothing the matter with your throat, absolutely
nothing,” he said solemnly.

“But I can’t talk. I—”

“Yes, yes, I’m not doubting you.” The doctor
walked slowly back and forth. “It’s just one more
case of war shock.

“You see,” he began, after waving the ladies into
chairs, “it’s like this. You, my child, are not afraid
of bombs. That is, you are determined not to be. So
are we all. We won’t let the enemy get us down.
That’s grand! Magnificent! The true British spirit.

“But, my dear,” his voice dropped, “that is all in
your mind. Your body has other things to say. It
is truly afraid, and you can do nothing about it.

“In such a case your body breaks down at its
weakest point. In your case it is your voice. I have
a patient who buys old stamps. He’s forever peering
through a glass, examining stamps, using his eyes.
He wasn’t afraid of bombs. But his body was. He
went totally blind. Since he was an American, I
packed him into the Clipper and sent him home.
And now,” the doctor spread his arms wide, “he’s
quite all right again.”

“But doctor, what am I to do?” There was agony
in Cherry’s whisper.

“Go to America. Two weeks there and you will
be well. Then come back and take up your work
once more. It’s your only chance. Is it worth the
trouble?”

“But I can’t. I—”

“Yes, you can.” Mrs. Ramsey was on her feet.
“I have it. The very thing! The boat sails next Monday.”

“The boat? What boat, mother?” Cherry stared.

“They have chartered a boat to carry refugee
children to America. I was discussing the sending
of Peggy and Tillie this very morning. The welfare
workers wish to send a grown person with each
group of ten children to look after them, direct their
play, keep them cheerful and happy. Cherry, you
shall be one of these. I shall see to it at once.”

“But mother!” Cherry’s whisper was pathetic.
“It’s so sudden. I must have time to think.”

“Very well,” said her mother, dismissing the
whole affair for a moment by a wave of her hand.
“Think as much as you please until this time tomorrow.”

And so now Cherry, as she walked slowly toward
the village, was thinking hard. Could she do it?
Leave Alice, Brand, and Dave, all her friends to embark
on this strange adventure? She had a horror of
the sea, yet, if she went she must be cheerful all the
way. “It’s the war,” she was thinking. “When there
is a war we have no choice. Duty calls. We must
go.”

Rounding a curve, a young cyclist came rushing
toward her. He slowed up when he was near. It was
Brand. There was a look on his face she had seldom
seen there before.

“Going home?” she asked simply.

“No. Just for a ride.”

A question was on her lips. She did not ask it.
There are times when we do not ask questions of
those we love.

“I’m going to the village,” she said simply. “Perhaps
I’ll meet you on the way back.”

“Perhaps.” Again he was on his wheel and away.

“Riding something down,” she told herself.
“Something rather terrible.” Then, as if a chill blast
had swept in from the hills, she shuddered.

At the village she came upon more tragedy.
Where the shop of Old John, the shoemaker, had
stood was a pit of darkness. On a stake stuck in the
ground someone had hung a bit of black crepe. This
was enough. Turning she walked straight toward
home. Her courage was now at the sticking point.
She would go on that ship with the children. It was
the only thing she could do to help. And everyone
must do something.

“Perhaps,” she thought, “I shall go to visit Dave’s
mother in Florida.”

Florida. At once she was dreaming of soft, lapping
waters, gleaming sands, waving palm trees, and
the eternal breath of spring. When one is young it
is not natural to be sad for long.

She had not gone far on her homeward jaunt
when a group of school children on their way home
from school caught her eye. Their actions amazed
her. One moment they were marching along engaged
in merry chatter, the next, like a flock of
birds escaping a hawk, they dashed from the road.

At the side of the road was a deep, dry ditch. Into
this the children tumbled pell-mell. When Cherry
came opposite them they were staring open-mouthed
toward the sky.

This held for a full minute. Then one pair of eyes
wandered. “Cherry!” a piping young voice cried.
“It’s Cherry!” A small pair of legs disentangled
themselves from the mass and a child came racing
up to Cherry. It was Tillie. In the mass, Cherry had
not recognized her. Peggy followed on her heels.
Soon, one on each side of the older girl, they were
marching toward home.

“What were you doing in that ditch,” Cherry
asked.

“Playing war,” was Peggy’s quick response. “It’s
loads of fun. We play there is a bombing plane right
overhead. One of the boys can whistle just like the
siren. You should hear him! He’s wonderful! After
that we all tumble into the ditch and watch for the
plane.

“Of course,” the little girl added thoughtfully,
“it never comes. But perhaps some day it really will
come.”

“Yes,” Cherry thought. There was a tightness in
her throat. “Yes, some day perhaps it will. And
then—”

Yes, she would go with those children to America.
She must. It was her duty.

Chapter XVIII

Dave’s Strange Craft

That boat-like affair on which Dave climbed after
a short swim from the spot where his plane had sunk
was strange indeed. Some sixteen feet long by eight
wide, it rested on the surface of the sea. It was not
a boat, for though it had a small cabin above and a
large one below, it was provided with no form of
propelling power, not even oars.

The fact that struck the boy with the force of a
blow was its unquestioned Nazi origin. On its side
was painted the hated cross. The cabin below was
fitted with all manner of articles for comfort and
convenience, blankets, towels, boxes of biscuits and
chocolate, bottles of soda water, all that a man could
ask. Yet even here was the dreaded swastika. It was
woven into towels and blankets and stamped into
the biscuits.

“A Jerry hotel of the sea, a one man’s paradise,”
he thought.

Then, of a sudden it came to him. It was a float.
He had heard of them. They were for the benefit of
Nazi airmen who fell into the sea.

“Well,” he sighed, “I’m no Nazi, but I am cold
and wet. So here goes!”

After stripping off his water-soaked garments he
slipped into a coarse, heavy shirt bearing the hated
insignia, a pair of blue trousers, coarse wool socks
and heavy shoes. The shoes were too large, but that
did not count.

“Now,” he sighed, “what next?”

It struck him with sudden shock that the next
thing might well be a routine visit to the float by an
enemy patrol boat. After that he would be “Somewhere
in Europe” for the duration of the war.

Climbing to the narrow deck, he scanned the sea.
A mist had settled down over the water. There was
a freshness in the air which suggested impending
storm. Here he was. Here he would stay unless—He
sat down to think.

Ten minutes later he sprang into action. There
was a compass in the lower cabin. He studied the
wind, then consulted the compass.

“O. K.,” he muttered. “If only—”

On a shelf he found a hammer and a box of
wooden pegs. These, he concluded, would be for
stopping up holes made by machine-gun bullets.

Taking the hammer, he began examining the floor
of the lower cabin on which he stood. The covering
was, he discovered, composed of fiber. To rip it up
was but the work of minutes. And there—he
uttered a sharp exclamation of joy,—there, countersunk
in the solid steel keel of this unsailing craft,
was a heavy steel nut. “Thought so,” he murmured.

He had reasoned that, since this float did not
move it must be anchored by a cable or chain. The
cable or chain must be fastened by a ring-headed
bolt with a nut inside the float. And so it was.

Now to remove the nut and let the float go free.
He blessed his stars that from early childhood he
had monkeyed with tools. A large nut, he had discovered
years ago, can be turned off simply by hammering
at the corners, thus turning it around little
by little, a slow, tedious process, but sure of success
in the end.

For more than an hour, the empty world of sea
and air might have heard the patient tap—tap—tap
of a hammer on steel.

Now and then he paused to listen. Only the ever-rising
song of the wind—welcome sound—greeted
his ears.

Once he consulted the compass, then climbed to
the upper deck to face the wind. After that he resumed
his tapping with increased speed.

At last, as a sigh escaped his lips, the nut slid to
one side. At the same instant a wave larger than all
the rest tilted the float half on its side. There came
the grating sound of the threaded bolt slipping from
its place. Then a thin fountain of water spurted up.

“Hurray! Free! We win!” he exulted.

“Not bad,” he murmured as, after stopping the
hole with a towel, he wrapped himself in a blanket
and stretched out for a rest.

This did not last long. He was in no mood for
inaction. The battle among the clouds had set his
blood racing. His imagination was fairly running
riot. The storm was picking up, but not half fast
enough. What if the Nazis caught up with him
here? They had provided the place with all manner
of comfort but no weapons. Perhaps, after all, this
float had been intended as a trap.

There was a short-wave radio in the corner. After
a brief inspection he discovered that it was both for
sending and receiving. Twice his hand was on a dial.
Twice, as his fingers trembled, he removed it. He
did long to get in touch with headquarters. By this
time the remnant of their flight would be back.
They would be wondering, dreading, hoping. He
could put these uncertainties to rest at least as far as
he was concerned. A few well-chosen words would
assure them that he was safe and that it was taps for
the beloved Johnny.

His heart ached as he recalled his one brief
glimpse of the fiddler’s smashed plane before it sank
forever beneath black waters. He had seen no sign
of life. Yes, the fiddler was gone. God rest his soul.

“But that Wick!” he asked himself. “What about
him?”

Yes, he thought he could get that radio going
and tell the boys at headquarters about things. But
what would the Heinies be doing all that time?
Checking his location, beyond a doubt. Sending out
a fast little craft to pick him up. Oh, no! Not yet.
Some things were best left alone.

After a time he made himself a cup of hot chocolate,
then drank it, at the same time munching biscuits
and chocolate bar. Very thoughtful of those
Nazis to spend so much time and thought on his
comfort.

There was even a checker-board and a deck of
cards. He played himself a game of checkers, then
switched to solitaire. This lasted a long time.

When darkness at last settled down upon the sea,
he climbed to the upper deck. Clinging to a rail he
watched the waves roll in. Seldom had he witnessed
a wilder scene. Racing clouds, racing sea and a moon
that appeared to race with them.

Once again he checked the direction of the wind.
Yes, unless he had miscalculated, he should land at
last on the English coast. When? He had no way of
knowing. One thing was sure, if this storm kept up
he’d know well enough when he did arrive. One
good bump would tell him that.

In the meantime? Well, tomorrow would be
another day. He’d be needing all his senses. Might
as well sleep while sleeping was good. After fastening
his strange craft down good and snug for the
night he rolled up in a half dozen heavy blankets
and fell asleep.

Chapter XIX

Thrilling Sky Drama

That night watchers on the rooftops of London,
those hardy men who all night long, with bags of
sand at their side, scan the skies for bombing planes,
witnessed a moving picture against the sky that they
would not soon forget.

A few minutes after the alarm had sounded, just
as Big Ben rang out the hour of nine, the thunder of
powerful motors was heard.

At this instant, far above them in the sky, there
appeared a light that was like the bursting of the
sun. A flare beyond a doubt, but such a flare as had
never before been seen. Every housetop, turret and
tower stood out in bold relief. Beneath the flare, but
far up in that sky, like a gigantic silver bird, a four-motored
Nazi bomber appeared to hang motionless.

As the watchers stared speechless something very
like a silver bat appeared to drop straight down from
the sky.

“It’s a Spitfire,” muttered one hardy watcher.

“An’ it’s suicide,” exclaimed his mate.

As the silver bat curved down toward the bomber
it let out a sound as of the ripping up of every sidewalk
in London.

At this every watcher threw himself flat on his
face, for from above came such a roar as had never
been heard before, no, not even in London.

A moment more and fragments of metal came
showering down far and wide.

The flare above was still burning. One watcher,
braver than the rest, scanned the sky. What he saw
was a pair of balloons belonging to a balloon barrage,
a trap set for enemy planes. Between the balloons
ran cables that in this strange light shone like
threads of silver. The thing that caught and held the
watcher’s eye was a silver spot clinging to those
cables.

“That will be the Spitfire,” he said to his mate
who now was sitting up. “The blast from that exploded
bomber blew him there. I told you it was
suicide. I said—

“And now may the Saints be praised!” His voice
rose as he turned his eyes. Some distance below
that silver spot a ghost-like circle had appeared.

“A parachute!” the watcher exclaimed. “And
may the Nazis be confounded! That pilot of the
Spitfire is still alive.”

“You’re quite right, Tim, me boy,” the other
agreed. “What’s more, if I judge the movement of
air rightly, he’ll be landin’ just about here.”

The roof on which the men stood was broad and
flat. As the two men watched, the parachute and
the dark spot hanging beneath it, which appeared to
be the pilot, grew in size. Carried first to the right,
then to the left, as if directed by the very breath of
the Gods, it came ever closer to that broad rooftop
on which the watchers stood.

“Sure he’s alive,” Tim murmured. “I saw his
arm move.”

“He—he’s almost down now,” muttered his
companion. “There now, he—” Breaking short
off the speaker dashed for the far side of the roof.

Just as the daring aviator’s feet touched the roof
a sudden, violent gust of wind caught his parachute
and sent it skyward. Lifting him off his feet, it carried
him forward at a rapid rate. Then, as if to complete
its work of destruction, over empty space the
parachute collapsed.

The parachutist found himself balanced on the
parapet, leaning back with all his might, but apparently
doomed to crash to the earth a hundred feet
below. Then, of a sudden, a voice said:

“Here, young man, where y’ think y’re goin’?”

A pair of husky arms were wrapped about him
and he was dragged to safety. His savior was Tim’s
powerful companion.

“Why, you’re little more than a boy!” The big
man exclaimed after peering into the rescued one’s
face.

“I’m more than that,” the youth replied huskily.
“If I were to tell you who I really am you might be
a little surprised. But I’m not telling.”

“Whoever you are,” said Tim with a wave of his
strong arms, “you’re a darling of the gods. What
you done tonight no other man could do an’ live.”

“What’s more,” Tim’s partner added, “you’ve
saved the life of many a woman an’ child. There was
two tons of bombs in that big ship an’ she was ’angin’
over blocks an’ blocks of tenements. It was early.
The first alarm had ’ardly sounded. They don’t get
to the subway that quick, the women an’ the children,
they don’t.”

The young flyer was pulling at his chute. It
caught and tore. “Here,” he exclaimed impatiently,
handing the strings to the big guard, “take this home
to your Missus. There’s some fine silk in it. And now
how do you get down from this place?”

“It’s right over ’ere,” said the astonished Tim as
he led the way to a trap door. “You just go down
that stairway. There’s a door at the bottom. You’ll
find stairways leadin’ to the ground floor an’ the
back outside door’s got a spring lock. Spring it an’
you’re outside.

“An’ ’ere’s wishin’ ye luck,” the big man added.
“’Ow about shakin’ your hand?” Two hands met
in a hearty grip. “’Ere’s ’opin’ we meets again,” said
the watcher.

Five minutes later the mysterious flyer reached
the good earth once again to lose himself at once
in the avenues of darkness that are London in the
blackout.

Chapter XX

Dave Comes Marching Home

Next morning Brand, whose time schedule for the
day included only a short practice flight in the afternoon,
asked permission to cycle over to the Hideout
in time for breakfast. Still terribly upset by the
losses of yesterday he wished to be among his own
people.

While breakfast was preparing he told of the sad
misadventures resulting from their first patrol flight.

“Bad business,” he murmured at the end. “The
Fiddler gone, Dave gone, soon our flight will be at
an end.

“But we’ll fight!” His voice picked up. “We’ll
fight to the last man.”

For a time after that all were silent. Then Cherry
asked, “Brand, did you hear the late news broadcast
last night?”

“No. What was up?”

“The strangest thing happened. It sounds like a
miracle. A bright flare, brightest ever seen, hung
over a bomber ready to help destroy London, when
a single Spitfire plunging down, down, down,
loosed a burst of fire at the bomber. Then came a
terrible explosion in midair.” “Got him!” Brand’s
eyes shone. “But the Spitfire?”

“He was blown against a balloon cable. He baled
out. He landed on a roof. Then he vanished. Who
does that sound like?”

“Like Fiddlin’ Johnny,” Brand whispered. “But
the Fiddler is dead and so is—”

He did not finish for at that moment the door
opened. Cherry, who stood facing the door, let out
a hoarse whispering cry, then barely missed throwing
herself in the new-comer’s arms.

“Careful, Cherry,” said a calm voice. “I’ve had
a lot of trouble and a heap of luck these last hours.
I couldn’t stand much more.” It was Dave.

“Dave! Are you really alive?” It was Alice who
asked this remarkable question.

“Why—yes. I—I think so.” Dave looked from
one to the other across the room. “At least that’s the
way I like to feel about it.” At this they all burst into
a merry laugh and somehow life seemed to begin all
over again.

“Tell us about it, Dave,” Cherry commanded.

“Wait. I’ll have to phone headquarters.” Dave
looked about for a phone. Then he remembered,
there was no phone in the Hideout.

“We’ve had the phone down at the house repaired,”
Alice said.

“I—I’ll be back for a cup of coffee.” Dave was
away on the run.

* * * * * * * *

At that moment the Commander at the airdrome
had just dropped to a place beside the young Lord
in the squadron mess room.

“Applegate,” he said soberly, “why did you do
it?”

“I had to.” There was a stubborn look on the
young Lord’s usually cheerful face.

“Why?” The Commander’s eyes were on him.

“It got on my nerves, those Jerries bombing
women and children every night and nothing being
done about it.” The young Lord did not look up.

“So you decided to commit suicide by doing
something?” The Commander’s voice was low.

“Well, I’m here.” A smile played about Applegate’s
lips.

“But you wouldn’t be again. Not one time in a
million. Wars are not won that way.

“Look here, Applegate,” the Commander’s voice
softened a little. “I’ve always liked you, been proud
of you. You were not raised like the rest of us.
When the war came you joined up and you’ve
played your part like a man.

“This fighting in the air is different.” The Commander
paused to look away. “It’s a little like the
old days that Walter Scott wrote about, Ivanhoe,
Kenilworth, Richard the Lionhearted, all that.
Each man got him a sword and fought it out with
the first enemy he met.

“It’s the same here in a way. You can’t always
fight in formation. But you do have to fight under
orders. You must, I must, everyone but the King
must. And he’s not so free either.

“Last night,” his voice fell, “you took your ship
without orders and did a stretch over London.
Why?”

“I—I couldn’t stand myself.” The young Lord’s
head was bowed. “Going out with five men, coming
back with three. Not getting the man I was after.
Losing the fellows we all love. What kind of fighting
is that?”

“It comes to all of us.” The commander’s voice
was gentle now. “Once over in France—

“Wait!” He sprang up. “There’s the phone.”

In the corner the young Lord heard the Commander
exclaim into the receiver, “What? Who?
Say! That’s great! How’s that? Yes. Certainly. As
long as you like.”

The Commander’s voice was deep with emotion
as turning back to the young Lord he said:

“That was Dave. He’s back safe. He’s over at
Ramsey Farm. They’re just having their biscuits,
marmalade and coffee. Want you to join them.”

The young Lord stood up. He tried to speak but
failed. With a bow and a salute he left the room.
Three minutes later his big car was burning up the
road leading to Ramsey Farm.

Chapter XXI

The Lark Defends His Home Town

It was truly a jolly party that sat down to breakfast
in the Hideout that morning. Dave had been
dead. Now he was alive again. Who could help being
happy? It seemed good to be together again, to
laugh over recent adventures and to talk in serious
tones of the future.

“There really isn’t so much to tell,” Dave insisted,
when they pressed him for his story. “I had
luck, that was all.”

He told of his landing, the sinking of his plane,
his discovery of the Nazi’s float and his work at
setting it adrift.

“After that,” he added, “it was just a matter of
time and a little more luck. I fell asleep. Of course, I
woke up now and then. Who wouldn’t? All I heard
was the whistle of the wind and the rush of waves
so I dozed off again.

“After midnight the sea settled down a bit. Just
at dawn my crazy craft bumped on a sandy beach.
Of course I was up and out in a hurry.

“And there!” He laughed. “Leave it to the Home
Guard! There on the beach, armed with heavy old-fashioned
rifles all pointed straight at me, were three
old men. And you could tell by the look on their
faces that they’d just as soon shoot me as not.”

“What did you do?” Cherry whispered.

“Do? Why! I let them take me prisoner. What
else could I do? There I was on a float marked with
the Nazi cross and wearing a Nazi swastika on my
shirt.

“I threw them a line and, when a big wave broke
on shore, they hauled me in.

“Then I invited them to take breakfast with me.
I had bacon in tins, biscuits in a box and a jar of
marmalade, also coffee. It was a grand feed. And did
those old men eat? They’d been on watch since sun-down.”

“And after that?” Cherry whispered.

“Then I showed them my water-soaked uniform,
my American passport in a waterproof pocket and
my identification tag.”

“And then they wanted to shoot you more than
ever.” Brand laughed.

“No—no, they didn’t.” Dave leaned back in his
chair. “They were regular old sports. Took it all as
a huge joke. Had a good laugh over it.

“Then,” he added, “I traded them my float for a
ride home in a dilapidated old car. And here I am.”

“That float will make them a nice outpost station
all winter.” Alice sighed with content. She
wanted everyone to be comfortable and happy.

“I’m going to America,” Cherry said. “The doctor
advised it for my voice. He says it’s nerves.

“There’s a boatload of children going. I’m to take
Peggy and Tillie.”

“Oh—o,” Dave breathed softly. “That will be
swell.” And so it would, he thought, for Cherry.

“But you, Alice?” The young Lord turned to the
older sister. “Shall you be going also?”

“No—o.” Alice spoke slowly. “I’m staying right
here. There’s the dairy, you know. Jock will care
for the cattle and tend to the milking. I’ll make the
butter. It all goes to your mess, I suppose you know?
The butter, I mean. Or didn’t you know?”

“I could have guessed,” said the young Lord.
“Our butter’s been uncommonly good of late.”

“Thanks a lot.” Alice made a neat bow. “Anyway
we’ve all got to carry on. I shall be quite all
right here with old Jock and Flash.”

“And we’ll all welcome an opportunity to drop
in for a chat now and then.” Dave added with a genuine
sigh of satisfaction. “We’ll always be needing
someone to listen to our tall tales or to offer us consolation
when we’ve met with defeat.”

“All quite true,” said the young Lord. And he
did not laugh.

Strange days followed. The R. A. F. in war time
is no respecter of persons. Though the young Lord
was of noble birth, he must suffer for his breach of
discipline. He was grounded for five days. His battered
Spitfire was taken down from the balloon
cables and repaired. Armor plate was added to his
seat and fitted about his motor, so the time out was
not all loss.

Every day the two “cubs”, Dave and Brand went
up with the Lark as their leader. Their field of
patrol was narrow. Since their last battle the Jerrys
seemed to avoid that little patch of the sky over
England.

One day an enemy dive-bomber wandered into
their “Sphere of Influence.”

Seeing the direction the bomber was taking, the
Lark let out a wild whoop, barked “Tallyho!” into
his receiver and then they were away. Climbing
into the sun they prepared to head the intruder off.

This time neither was, in the matter of speed, a
match for the Lark. There was a reason. The town
for which the bomber was headed was Renton-by-the-Sea.
In that small city the Lark had spent his
happy boyhood days. Neither an industrial town
nor a seaport, it was one of those charming little
cities where tired business men and their families
spend their week-ends at play.

“My home town!” the Lark roared into the receiver.
“He’ll send some of the very houses I’ve
known and loved for years spouting into the sky!
Only he won’t.” Dave could hear his teeth crack.

And then the strange fellow’s voice boomed forth
in song. “It’s a long way to Tipperary. It’s a long
way to go.”

The Lark was now flying straight away from the
sun. The dive-bomber’s pilot had not seen him. He
was circling like a gull preparing for a sudden dive
when the Lark came straight at him. Not troubling
to get on his tail, the brave young defender of his
home town let out a burst of fire, then went swooping
past him.

An answering burst rattled against the Lark’s
plane but did no harm. Banking sharply, the Lark
came up beneath the bomber, stood his Spitfire on
its tail, let out a second burst, then gripping his
emergency lever he thundered out from under and
away.

He was not a second too soon. The bomber heeled
over to rocket toward the earth. It burst into flames
then blew up with such force that Dave, some distance
away, was set into a spin and barely escaped a
crash.

Once more singing Tipperary, The Lark led the
way home. After a time he broke off to shout:

“The small boys of my home town will be hunting
souvenirs from that bomber for weeks to come.
Oh, boy! How I wish I was a child again, just for
tonight.”

When there was time off Dave enjoyed striding
Brand’s bike and riding away to the Hideout. It was
good to drop back into the old, quiet, nearly normal
life. Alice and Cherry were there and sometimes the
children. Cherry seemed to take her trip to America
very quietly, as a matter of duty. She spent hours
sitting by the fire asking Dave about his native land,
but always in that quiet, matter-of-fact whisper of
hers. The children were vastly excited about the
trip and eager to be away.

At times Dave thought of the days to come when
Alice would be alone with the aged veteran and the
dog, Flash. The thought troubled him a little. There
were, he supposed, enemy spies about. He had come
into contact with one of these.

Ramsey Farm seemed to have been marked for
destruction. He often asked himself why. A prisoner
of war had once worked here. He had been
treated with kindness and as an equal. Why should
he have gone away embittered? “Twisted sort of
mind, I suppose,” was his final conclusion.

Had this spy, Nicholas Schlitz brought destruction
upon himself that night by the castle, or was
he still prowling about? This question needed answering.

Late one afternoon he rode over to the castle.
Coming upon a workman who cared for the castle
grounds, he stated his problem.

“Perhaps this will answer your question,” the
man said simply. He held out a metal disc. There
was a name and number on the disc.

“Tom and I found it two days after the bombing,”
the man said. “There was more to it than that,
but I needn’t trouble you with the details. Tom and
I, we figured it all out and reckoned the least said
soonest mended.

“We reported this ’ere business to the proper authorities,
sir,” he went on. “It’s all in order, sir. We
should have turned the tag in at headquarters. You’ll
be doin’ us a service if you’ll attend to that for us, sir.

“And,” he added after a moment, “you’ll put in
a few words of explanation. Words come handier
to you than they does to Tom and me. I’m a thinkin’
you know the details.”

“I shouldn’t wonder.” Dave spoke slowly.
“Thanks a lot. I’ll feel better about Alice being over
at the Hideout with only old Jock and the dog to
protect her.”

“No doubt of that, sir,” the man agreed as they
parted.

War, Dave thought, was strange.

Chapter XXII

Roll Out the Barrel

Sunday came and with it the knowledge that before
dawn of the next day the good ship Queen Bess
would be on her way to America. And on that ship
would ride Tillie, Peggy and their escort, Cherry.

Early Sunday morning the social worker from
the subway and the little red-headed Irish pianist
arrived in a car before the door of the Hideout.

“All the people of our subway have read in the
paper about your trip to America,” the social
worker said to Cherry. “They want you to attend
a farewell party.”

“But I can’t sing. Can’t even speak out loud,”
Cherry whispered.

“We know that,” exclaimed the little redhead.
“They know it and are sorry for you. But you can
still smile.”

“Yes.” Cherry proved her answer by a happy
smile.

“That’s all that matters,” exclaimed the social
worker. “Then you will come?”

“Yes.” Cherry swallowed a happy lump in her
throat. “I’ll come.”

“We’ll all go down in my car,” the young Lord
said later in the day. “When the party is over it will
be about time for you to take the train for your
port.”

“And we’ll all go down to the port to see you
off,” Alice added with a grand smile.

That party in the subway was like nothing that
ever happened before. So happy were the people at
sight of their Singing Angel that they stood on their
feet and shouted for a full five minutes.

It was Sunday night, but as if they must crowd
weeks of joy into one wonderful night the people
took the program in their own hands and sang
everything from “Roll out the Barrel” to “God
Save the King” and from “I’ve got my Eyes on
You” to the “Glory Song.”

Ah yes! That was a night Cherry would not soon
forget. One moment they were bowing before the
Old Rugged Cross, the next they were Rolling the
Old Chariot along. When at the very end someone
started “God be with you till we Meet Again,”
many an eye was moist. But at the very middle of
the song a huge man who could stand no more emotion
roared out in a terrific basso:

“We’ll roll the old chariot along.” And so, with
a glorious shout they once again rolled the old chariot.
Then the party was at an end.

It was a jolly party that, as Big Ben struck the
hour of ten, boarded the train bound for the seaport
town where the Queen Bess lay at anchor. Children
with their sponsors filled every compartment of the
train.

When they at last reached their destination and
swarmed out on the platform the children began
singing:

“Roll Out the Barrel.” And no one said, “Hush,
this is Sunday.” But everyone took up the song. For
this was the children’s hour.

There was no singing as, after finding their compartment
for them, the little group from Ramsey
Farm prepared to bid goodbye to Cherry, Tillie and
Peggy.

Every one of them knew that their little group
was breaking up and perhaps forever. They had
shared joy and sorrow. A brother, two sisters, a life-long
friend, a new-found pal from across the sea and
two little waifs from the slums of London, they
silently shook hands in the dark, then whispered,
“Goodbye-Goodbye! Goodbye! And lots of good
luck!”

On the way back on the train Alice whispered to
Dave, “I wish Cherry hadn’t gone.”

“Why?” Dave stared.

“I don’t know. I just wish it, that’s all.”

And so, through the blackout, the little English
train carried them back to London.

Next day Alice returned to her improvised buttery
and her churn. But the song that so often had
enlivened her task as the dasher went up and down
was silenced.

For Dave the joy of flying increased with every
morn. To climb up from the earth, to greet the
dawn, to lose himself in the clouds, ah! that was
joy beyond compare.

“If it only weren’t war,” he whispered to himself.
And yet war did give it an added tang. It was like
the nipping frost in the air that greets the ice-skater
or the singing of the sled runners that delights the
ears of the dog-team racer. He did look forward to
the day when the young Lord’s penalty should be
paid and the four of them would again be in the air.

The day came and they thundered away with
the break of day. On this day, however, Heinie apparently
was content to stay at home. Not a speck
marred the blue of that little patch of the sky over
England they claimed as their own.

“We’ll meet them again,” the young Lord’s tone
was confident, as at last they returned to earth.

“Wolves, weasels, skunks, and all kinds of varmints
visit the same little corner of the earth time
after time. So do the Jerries. That big boaster,
Wick, will return. And then!” It was clear that he
had not forgotten the loss of his most beloved flying
mate, Fiddlin’ Johnny.

“I wonder,” Dave said thoughtfully. “Does
Wick always fly his men in that V-shaped formation?”

“Always, I am told,” was the answer.

“He assumes that we want to get at him and that
we’ll go for the man protecting his tail,” Dave said
thoughtfully. “That gives his other men a chance to
close in and clean us up. Supposing we fooled him
by taking off his three men on the other line, one at
a time?”

“It’s an idea,” the young Lord replied. “Perhaps
we’ll try it. Yes, I think we shall—when the time
comes. And it will come, never fear!”

“Alice must be lonesome with Cherry and the
children gone,” Dave suggested to Brand that evening.
“Let’s go over.”

“I can’t tonight,” was Brand’s reply. “The Lark
is giving me a lesson on handling a Brownie. You
can’t learn too much, you know, not in this man’s
war.”

“Nor half enough,” Dave agreed.

Mounting Brand’s bicycle, Dave rode over the
pleasing country roads to Ramsey Farm. Night was
just falling. There was a glorious freshness about
the night air. The war seemed far away. “As if it
couldn’t touch any of us,” he thought. How wrong
he could be at times.

He found Alice doing the dinner dishes. Flash
was curled up by the fire. Old Jock was at the stables.
Dave grabbed a drying towel and helped with
the dishes. Then they sat by the cheerful fire. He
spoke of his day’s work. “No luck,” he concluded.
“Perhaps tomorrow. Brand and I are getting better
with our planes every day. We’ll be fighters yet.”

Alice smiled.

“Tonight they seemed very far away,” she said,
after a moment. Her voice was low. “It’s the first
time Cherry and I have been parted for long.”

He knew who she meant and was silent.

From outside came the sound of a car. It stopped.
There was a hand on the latch. Mrs. Ramsey
stepped into the room. A large, healthy, good-natured
woman, on arriving it was her custom to
shout a cheery greeting. Tonight there was nothing
of that.

“You’re here, David?” she said as she took his
hand. “I’m glad.” She gave Dave her heavy coat,
then took a place by the fire.

“It’s a bit chilly outside tonight,” said Alice.

“Quite.” Mrs. Ramsey’s voice seemed strange.

“But still and peaceful,” Dave suggested. “As if
there were no war.”

After that for a full minute there was silence.

When at last the mother spoke her voice was
high-pitched and a little strained. “I don’t know
how to say it,” she began. “I’m not good at such
things. I’m always too blunt about my speech. ‘Out
with it’, that’s been my motto.

“You must know how I feel,” she went on after
a pause, “So why all the beating around the bush?
A rather terrible thing has happened. The Queen
Bess has been attacked and sunk.”

Dave started and stared, yet neither he nor Alice
spoke a word.

“It came to me by secret message,” Mrs. Ramsey
went on. “The general public doesn’t know about
it yet.”

“And did—did—” Alice’s words stuck in her
throat.

“We have only the most meager details,” the
mother said. “It was a sea raider that did it, not a
submarine. The raider came in firing a broadside.
Then it vanished into the night.

“In twenty minutes the Queen Bess was gone,
down by the bow. There was a sea on. Some of the
lifeboats were swamped. The children were magnificent!
Perfectly magnificent!” Mrs. Ramsey swallowed
hard. “All of them sang ‘Roll out the Barrel’
through it all.”

“Oh—o!” Alice breathed, then hid her face.

“That’s all there is to tell.” Mrs. Ramsey rose.
“I must get back. I practically ran away. There was
a frightful raid last night. All our wards are full.
We—we’ll hope for the best.” She was gone.

They sat there in silence by the fire for a long
time, the boy and the girl, in a troubled world.

At last Dave rose to walk slowly back and forth
across the well-worn floor.

It was Alice who at last spoke. “Dave. She is not
gone. She’s out there somewhere. You can’t kill
such a spirit as Cherry’s. You just can’t.”

“That’s right,” Dave agreed. “It can’t be done.”
He meant just that. “Well,” he sighed, “I’ll be going
back. Let me know about things. I—I’ll bring
Brand tomorrow night if we can make it.”

“Dave, I’m sorry,” Alice said as she clasped his
hand in farewell. She was thinking of him just then,
he knew that. She was trying to tell him she was
sorry their happy evening together had been
spoiled. How sort of magnificent she was! How
marvelous these English girls!

Chapter XXIII

Victory

When Dave told Brand and the young Lord the
news of the sinking, true to their British tradition
they had little to say. Next day, however, they
appeared on the field prepared for the dawn patrol.
Dave saw new, hard lines about their lips.

“I’d hate to be their enemy today,” he thought,
as a thrill ran up his spine.

They had been cruising, four of them, the young
Lord, Brand, The Lark, and Dave, for an hour
when out of a very small cloud, for all the world as
if it had been waiting there for days, came that same
formation, five planes in a V-shape. One plane following
the leader on the right and three on the left.

“Can I believe my eyes?” The Lark shouted into
his speaker.

“You can.” The young Lord’s voice was low.
“Not another word. No shouting, please. You all
know how we planned it. I’ll take the talk man of
the three on the left. You know the rest. Tallyho!”

“Tallyho,” came echoing from the others. They
were away.

Since they were a thousand feet above the enemy
and in the end they came swooping down from
above. They were not seen until the young Lord
was all but upon his victim. His was a murderous
assault that could have but one ending. As if in rehearsal,
The Lark slipped into the place left vacant
by the young Lord as he dropped into a power-dive.
The Lark’s man went down in flames. Deserting
his post, the third man tried flight, but with the
luck of a beginner, Brand shot downward, then
climbed straight up to riddle the Messerschmitt’s
motor and send it down in a cloud of yellow smoke.

As for Dave, the whole affair had gone off with
such speed that he found himself in a half daze,
headed straight for the side of a gleaming Messerschmitt.
Then his eyes registered an astonishing
fact. He was facing the boasting Wick himself, he
who called himself a deadly killer. On the tail of his
plane was a black blotch. Dave knew this to be fifty-six
black lines, one for each victim Wick claimed.
For a space of seconds Dave’s blood was turned to
ice. Then, with a rush, it was like molten steel.

They were close now, dangerously close, yet
each was out of range of the other. Suddenly gripping
his emergency lever, giving his motor its last
ounce of power, Dave banked sharply, saw the terrible
Wick rise into his sight, pressed the firing button,
heard for one brief second his machine-guns
speak, then went into a spin. Whirling over and over
and going down, down, down where the good soil
of Merry England lies, he thought, “This is the
end!”

He was wrong. He came out of the spin. How?
He would never know.

After levelling off he looked up, then down. To
the right of him a Messerschmitt was falling in
flames. Even as he looked it exploded in mid-air.

Far in the distance the one remaining enemy was
speeding away. Off to the left the young Lord’s line
was forming. Climbing slowly, Dave at last joined
that line. Then, in the Sky Over England that was
once more England’s own, they cruised the blue
until the young Lord gave the word and they went
thundering home.

As they left their ships on the landing field the
young Lord walked over to Dave, put out a hand,
gripped Dave’s hard, then without a word walked
away. It was enough. Dave understood and was
glad.

Just at mess time that evening an old man, member
of the Home Guard appeared at headquarters.
Under his arm he carried a flat, paper-wrapped
package.

“Thought you might like it, sir,” he said as he
placed it in the young Lord’s hand.

As the others gathered around the flight leader
unwrapped it, then handed it to Dave. It was the tail
of a Messerschmitt. On it had been painted two
letters, H. W. Below these letters were 56 long,
black lines.

“This,” said Dave, “should be yours.” He gave
it back to the young Lord. “All trophies belong to
the leader of the flight.”

“To the entire squadron,” the young Lord replied
huskily. “Come. We’ll put it up where all may
see.” He placed it on the mantle. “Not that we need
to boast,” he said quietly, “but that all men may
know that the Sky Over England is England’s
alone.”

Chapter XXIV

Searchers of the Sea

Next morning the squadron commander received
a strange request. Young Lord Applegate
walked into his quarters, saluted, then said:

“Commander, I wish to ask for a transfer.”

“A transfer?” The Commander sat forward in his
chair. “Why? You are doing magnificently. Only
yesterday—”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Applegate broke in,
“that has no bearing on the case. I ask for a transfer
to the bomber service that patrols the sea. I was
trained for that work, had a full year’s training.
That should be enough.”

“But you are a born fighter.”

“Perhaps,” the young Lord admitted. “And perhaps
too one may fight with a twin-motored
bomber.”

“There’s seldom an opportunity on sea patrol.”

“We will make an opportunity. My men, Ramsey,
Barnes and The Lark, wish to go with me. Old
Jock, from Ramsey Farm, a gunner, first-class, who
lost a leg in Flanders, will join us.”

“I still don’t see—”

“Commander,” the young Lord’s face was tense
with emotion, “with me this is a personal matter.
You’ve heard of the sinking of the Queen Bess?”
The Commander nodded.

“Cherry Ramsey was on that ship. You know
her, I’m sure.”

“I have met her. A charming girl. She was doing
a grand piece of work. Was she lost?”

“Her name is not on the list of those rescued. But
it is believed,” the young Lord’s voice rang with
hope, “that one life-boat, not swamped by the
storm, remains unreported.

“If I am granted a transfer to the Sea Patrol I
shall ask that we be allowed to patrol that portion
of the air over the Atlantic beneath which the
Queen Bess was fired upon and sunk.”

“I see.” The commander’s face was thoughtful.

“That is not all.” The lines on the young Lord’s
brow deepened. “I shall ask that we be allowed to
carry two five-hundred pound bombs and be commissioned
to search for the merciless sea raider that
sank that shipload of children. It is still at large.”

The commander nodded. “She attacked a convoy
last night. Gave no warning. Sank three ships, then
was away.”

For a moment the commander sat staring at the
wall. “It’s very irregular,” he murmured.

“This is an irregular war, not fought by rules.
Fought by men. Thank God for that!” The young
Lord’s chin was up.

“All right. I’ll see what I can do.” The commander
stood up. “Report to me here at noon.”

The young Lord saluted, then marched away.

An hour later he was engaged in a heated argument
with his good friend, Alice. “But, Alice!” his
voice rose. “It’s impossible! A woman on a sea-patrol
bomber! Suppose we catch up with that ruthless
pirate.”

“All right.” Alice stood up sturdy and tall. “Suppose
we do?”

“It won’t be a one-sided fight. That raider carries
anti-aircraft guns. Death may be waiting at those
crossroads of the sea.”

“Death.” Alice’s voice was low. “In this war not
just young men are giving their lives for the land
they love. Men and women and children are. It’s
everybody’s war.

“Harm!” (She seldom used that name of other
days. In her soul was written traditional homage to
nobility.) “It is Cherry who is out there on those
black waters. Our Cherry! Peggy and Tillie are
with her. A woman’s eyes are always sharper than
a man’s. Always when we were children it was my
eyes, not yours, that saw the lark soaring skyward
or the finches hiding in the hedges. Harman, let
me go!”

“But the farm, Alice?” The young Lord was
weakening.

“Surely you can spare Jeff Weeks and his wife
for a few days to look after this farm.”

“A few days? Yes. But suppose it is forever?”
The young Lord’s voice was low. “Alice, more important
than our search for Cherry, much as we all
love her, is to be our hunt for the sea-raider. And
if we find it there will be no quarter! It shall be
that ship or our plane. Such is war.”

“If it is to be forever?” There was a smile on the
girl’s lips. “We die but once. The farm will not
matter. Let me go!”

The young Lord threw up his hands. “I surrender,”
he whispered hoarsely.

And so it happened that, when the transfer had
been granted and the young Lord had been put in
command of a sea-scouting bomber, one of the fastest
in the service, and when it sailed away into the
blue, it carried not five but six men. One of these
“men” had short, bobbed hair, and as he stood by
the one-legged, gray-haired rear gunner, he looked
remarkably like a girl.

At dawn, in a bomber that made their little Spitfires
seem like gulls, the young warriors rose high
in air, far above the clouds, to zoom away.

When land was lost from sight the young Lord
studied his compass and his chart, set a course south
by west to at last drop down close to the sea.

After that, hour after hour, with eyes that burned
from watching and hearts that ached with longing,
they studied the dark surface of the never-ending
sea.

Twice they came upon British ship convoys and
dipped low to greet them. Once they thought they
saw a life-boat and hope ran high. But, as they
dropped low, the supposed boat submerged.

“Whale or a submarine?” the young Lord barked
into his receiver.

“Whale,” was old Jock’s instant response. So
they soared on.

It was only after their gasoline supply began running
low that they at last rose into the blue to go
zooming to a landing field in the north of Scotland.

There, after darkness had fallen, Alice slipped
away to a little hotel where no questions were asked.
When, however, she told what she dared of their
mission, she was accorded the hospitality due a
queen and in the morning not a cent would her
hostess accept.

“It’s our own war,” said the good lady, “and may
the good Lord bless you.”

The second day was more than half gone. The
girl’s eyes were red with watching when she called
in her phone, “I—I hear the sound of firing.”

Every headset was removed.

“Not a sound but the motors. Not a sound,” was
the report.

“Climb. Then shut off your motors,” Alice insisted.

It was done, and from the west to their listening
ears came the roar of heavy guns.

“Prepare for action,” the young Lord barked.
“See that the bombs are in their place. Make all fast.

“And,” he added softly, “say a prayer.”

Their ship was fast. Smoke loomed on the horizon.
Ships, a large convoy, took form. A minor sea-battle
was in progress. Doughty captains of freighters
were pitting their small guns against the heavy
ones of a raider.

They were rapidly approaching the scene when
with a joyous battle cry the Lark sang out, “Man!
Oh, man! They’ve spotted us. Look! There they
go! Running at full speed.”

“We’re after them.” The young Lord’s lips were
drawn into a straight line.

Old Jock was at the bomb controls, Dave and
Brand at the one-pound cannons, the Lark at the
radio.

They climbed a thousand feet, three, five, then
twenty thousand feet. They were all but above the
fleeing raider now. Dave tried to imagine the wild
commotion and the frenzied preparation on board
that raider at that moment. Just what the young
Lord meant to do, he knew. Life and death hung
in the balance.

As for the young Lord, his brow suddenly
wrinkled. He had caught a glimpse of two specks
against the sky.

“Here,” he called to Alice. “Have a look through
the glass. Off to the right! Enemy or friend? Tell
me—Quick!”

One look and she told him. “Enemy! Twin
motor interceptors. Two of them.”

“Good! We’ll show them how it’s done.”

Ten seconds later he barked, “All set for a power
dive!”

The big ship’s nose pointed toward the sea. Far
below the raider seemed a speck. As it grew in size
it could be seen to zig-zag this way, then that.

“All or nothing,” had been the young Lord’s
order. “When I give the signal release both bombs.”

As Dave watched it seemed they could not win.
Yet the young Lord had a keen mind. He had been
well trained.

To the roar of the motor and the screaming of
the plunging plane was added the burst of anti-aircraft
fire. Death rode the air.

And then Dave realized that the instant had come.
Fascinated, he watched a bomb glide from its place,
then another. A second later there was a lurch as the
plane began coming out of its dive.

To Dave, the time of waiting, only a few seconds,
seemed endless. Then came a boom, followed almost
at once by a second. And then a roar far greater than
the others. There was a push that lifted them high,
then all but dropped them into the sea.

“Right on the nose!” The Lark roared from his
tail gunner’s position. “Blew up their magazine.
Raider, whose captain has a heart of stone, has met
its end.”

“We’ll let those Nazi planes get what satisfaction
they can out of that,” said the young Lord in
a surprisingly quiet tone of voice. “We’ll just hop
over and do what we can for that convoy.

“But stay in your places. Man your guns,” he
warned. “Those planes may attack. If they do,
give ’em all you’ve got!”

The enemy planes did not attack. Perhaps they
had seen quite enough.

Thankful to be alive, the young Lord and his men
flew to the rescue of those British seamen whose
ships of the convoy had been sunk. Never before
had Alice been so close to war as now. Helping these
cold seamen, some of them frightfully wounded,
from the water into the wings and into the cabin of
their plane, then to the ships that had escaped the
raider, she realized for the first time what it was
costing these men to keep her native land fed, defended
and free.

When their two hours of rescue work were over
and they were prepared to take to the air once
again, she was shocked to find that in her work for
others she had quite forgotten her bright-eyed
sister who must at this moment be drifting on this
very sea or sleeping far beneath its waves.

It all came back to her like a sudden shock of pain
as they rose above the sea.

Another hour of futile search, then the big ship
pointed her nose toward the home base.

“Orders,” the little Lord explained, “just came
in on the radio. The news of our good stroke has
reached London. We are to come in for reassignment.”

“Reassignment!” Alice stared but said never a
word.

Chapter XXV

The Rescue

The news of their success had gone on before them
by radio. At the airdrome they were given a royal
welcome. Congratulations were the order of the
day. The entire crew was invited to the Squadron
Commander’s home in a near-by village for dinner.

Somehow the word that Alice had been on the
bomber at the moment of its triumph had got about.
Ignoring every precedent, the commander’s wife
invited her to the dinner and fitted her out with a
dress suited to the occasion. She was quite the queen
of the occasion.

For all her gayety, deep down in her soul the
girl was broken-hearted. A half hour before they
went in for dinner the young Lord had told her in
steady, even tones that only served to reveal his
hidden emotion that the invasion of their land
seemed near at hand, that the R. A. F. was sadly in
need of heavy bombers for breaking up troop-concentrations
on the other shore. “Five powerful
bombers are waiting, all equipped, on American
shores,” the young Lord had said. “My orders are to
pick up crews for these bombers—they are waiting
for me at a Scottish airdrome—and to fly these crews
across the Atlantic.”

“No—no more search?” Alice’s tongue had gone
dry.

“Perhaps a little coming and going,” he replied,
striving to ease her pain. “We shall sail over those
same waters.”

“Then I shall go with you,” she flashed.

“That is as the Commander may decide.” Once
before the young Lord had tried refusing her.
Never again.

“He can’t deny me that much.” Alice’s words
were steady and sure. Nor was she wrong.

As the plane took off next day for its long hop
across the Atlantic, it carried twenty-six men and
Alice. Perhaps she had been commissioned to prepare
and serve hot drinks for the long journey. No
one knew or seemed to care. She was there. That
was all that mattered.

Every man of the company knew her story.
When the time came to sail over the waters close
to the spot where the Queen Bess went down for a
full hour every eye was on the sea. Nothing showed,
so at long last they settled back for the hours that
were yet to come.

One hour out of every three Alice busied herself
serving refreshments. She slept a little and thought
a great deal. Long, long thoughts those were. Then
they were at their secret destination, a cold, bleak
shore somewhere in North America.

A few hours of sleep, then again they were away.
This time six powerful ships zooming away toward
the distant skies that are England’s own.

After weary hours of waiting they found themselves
once more above the waters from whence
had come the last S. O. S. of the good ship, Queen
Bess. There were five of them now, Alice, Dave,
Brand, the Lark and the young Lord.

As Alice studied first the compass, then the
chart, she looked at the young Lord who was at the
controls and he understood.

He wanted to say, “Alice your hopes last too
long. Forget the boat. It can’t be there.” But “forget”
he knew full well was one word not to be
found in the girl’s vocabulary. So, pointing the
ship’s nose toward the sea, then stepping down its
speed, he sailed close to sparkling waters. It was
midday. The sun was bright. They could see for
miles.

A half hour passed. Hope seemed all but gone
when, of a sudden, Alice gripped the young Lord’s
arm.

“Harm!” she screamed in his ear. “Off to the
right! See! There’s something white!”

The young Lord saw nothing. He did bank away
to the right.

Then they all saw it, a white spot. It seemed to
move backward and forward. Every muscle tense,
they waited. The spot loomed larger. Beneath it
appeared a dark form.

“Alice—Alice—I know your voice”

“A boat!” Alice cried. “It is a boat! There are
people, living people! They are waving something
white!”

“Steady, girl.” The young Lord framed the
words with his lips.

Yes, she knew. Other ships had been lost, other
life-boats had wandered away. And yet. It just must
be true. It must be the boat from the Queen Bess.

As they dropped to the surface of the sea, she
found herself holding her breath. On the prow of
the life-boat was a name. Two words. It must be
‘Queen Bess.’ The first letter of each word was
large.

“Yes!” she cried at last. “Q. B.—Queen Bess!”

Above the sound of the taxiing motor someone
heard her cry. That someone stood up in the life-boat
and screamed,

“Alice! Alice! I know your voice! Oh, thank
God we are saved!”

Three minutes more and the girls were in one-another’s
arms.

“See what a haul we made,” the young Lord exclaimed
sometime later. “Seven children, one young
lady and fifteen able-bodied seamen.”

“And all because one little lady named Alice
would not give up,” Dave replied huskily.

Having watched them as they made their search
and noted their landing, the pilot of a huge four-motored
bomber came circling back. By code
messages they made contact with their headquarters.
Plans were made and orders given. The big
bomber that had turned back was to supply the
young Lord with extra gasoline, then was to pick
up the seamen and bring them to England. The
young Lord and his crew were to carry Cherry and
the seven children to America.

“And after that,” the Squadron Commander’s
voice boomed over the air, “the young Lord Applegate
and his crew are to have a two-weeks’ leave in
America. Good-luck and fine flying!”

“Cherry,” Alice teased, when their supreme
moment was at an end, “you have your voice now.
You should go straight back to England.”

“Oh, no!” Cherry threw up her hands. “I—I
started to America. I’m still on my way. Beside,”
she added soberly. “There are the children.”

Ah, yes, there were the children, Tillie, Peggy
and five others. How brave they had been through
all the long hours, only Cherry could tell. As they
climbed aboard the plane, all undaunted, Peggy,
the little alley rat from the London slums, struck
up, “Roll out the Barrel.” And they all joined in.

“But, Cherry,” Dave asked when once again they
were headed for America, “how did your voice
come back?”

“Oh!” Cherry laughed. “It was the night our ship
was attacked. We had been fired upon, the ship
was sinking. Boats were being swamped by the
waves. But through it all we must keep the children
calm and in line. There’s nothing like singing in a
time like that. I thought of a song, a silly, terrible,
glorious song. Its words were on my lips. I opened
my mouth. The words came out, “Roll out the
Barrel.” ‘And we’ll all have fun.

“The children sang. We all sang. We all remained
calm. And we got away.

“Some of us got away,” she added soberly. “But
my voice, that was a miracle, I guess. God knew
I needed it so very, very badly for that trying
hour.”

A week later Cherry sat in a great easy chair before
a broad window. She was looking out upon a
scene of matchless beauty, the broad lawn to Dave’s
big old-fashioned, New England home in winter.
The first snow. They had decided upon this spot
because there, of all places, they could really find
rest and peace.

As if dressed for a party, the hedge and great
evergreen trees were decked with white. “It is
beautiful! Glorious!” She murmured. “And yet—”

Beside her on a small table lay a letter just finished.
She had written to her mother. Among other
things she had said, “Mother, don’t be troubled. We
are going to win the war. We are not alone. More
and more, everywhere I go in America I am told
that people are coming to feel stronger about this
war. They will send us guns, ships and planes. We
shall win. We are not alone.”

For some time she sat there quite alone looking
away at the winter landscape. Their journey to
America had been a glorious adventure. They were
being royally entertained. Just now Alice was in
the kitchen with the children popping corn. Brand,
the young Lord and the Lark had gone hunting.

Yes, they were having a grand time. But her
thoughts were far away. Only that morning she
had received a letter from her mother. It was full
of news. A flying repair squad had put their house
back, good as new. “We now have a home again,”
was the word. “How good that seems! They are
asking for you at the subway. All England calls for
their Singing Angel.”

“All England,” she whispered softly.

Slipping in from another room, Dave took a
seat beside her.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” He spread his arms to include
all out-of-doors.

“Yes,” she agreed. “So beautiful it makes your
heart ache. But, Dave, I’m eager to be back in England.
I—I just can’t stand the silence. There’s no
excitement, no great cause. It—it’s strange. War is
terrible! But when you belong in it you want to be
there. You just ache to be there. It—it is very
strange.”

“You’ll be on your way in a week. Your subway
crowd will be waiting for you. But a week, that’s
soon enough,” he insisted.

“And you?” Her voice was low.

“I?” He looked into her eyes. “What do you
think?”

“I have no way to know.”

“There are many people here in America,” He
spoke slowly, thoughtfully, “who say this is not
our war. Perhaps it is not. Who knows? That question
must be decided by older, wiser heads than
mine. But as for me,” his shoulders straightened,
“this is my war. And I’m going back.”

“I’m glad,” she whispered.

“You’ll come to America again sometime,” he
whispered after a while.

“Yes, I hope so.”

“Perhaps for good and all?” His voice was low.

“Who knows?” She was staring dreamily at the
lovely landscape. Perhaps she was seeing into the
future. If so, what did she see? Dave dared not ask.

Had he but known it, at that moment words from
a very old book were running through Cherry’s
mind, “Whither thou goest, I will go; and where
thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my
people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest, I
will die, and there will I be buried.”

And so that bright day grew dim with the shades
of night.

Transcriber’s Notes

• Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public domain in the country of publication.
• Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and dialect unchanged.
• Left unchanged the hopelessly confused quotation marks around the quoted song on page 237.
• In the text versions, delimited italics text in _underscores_ (the HTML version reproduces the font form of the printed book.)