"They've gone a goodish way to pay their own score," said the Leader grimly. "And some others. Anyway, that lot will do no raid on London to-night." * * * * * The Squadron was drowsily swallowing hot cocoa, completing reports and lurching to bed, when the stout man clambered to his usual corner seat in the First Smoker and gave his usual morning greeting to the others there bound for business. "Well," he said jovially, "no Gothas over after all." "Never even made a try, apparently," said the little man opposite. "Seems odd. Such a perfect night." "Very odd." ... "Wonder why...." "I made sure," said the compartment. "I don't understand...." They didn't understand. Neither did a-many thousands in London who had been equally certain of "Gothas over" on such a perfect night. Neither even did they understand in the homes of "poor little Bantam" and "good old Happy," whither telegrams were already wending, addressed to the next-of-kin. But the Huns understood. And so did the Raid-Killers. When you pray and hear them say Baby prayers to-night, "Guardian angels keep us safe Till the morning light," Give a word and give a thought, If you've one to spare, To your guardian air men Flying "over there." End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Air Men o' War, by Boyd Cable