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.”