“The moon rises early tonight,” Curly Levitt informed his friends. “If we’re within two miles of land then, we should be able to see the shore line. The cloud ceiling isn’t so thick that it will shut out all the light.” As a matter of fact, the clouds thinned as evening approached. A stiff breeze sprang up, drifting the rafts so rapidly toward land that the paddles were no longer needed. As the last daylight faded a faint glow above the eastern horizon told that the moon was up. The rafts had been tied together all afternoon, to avoid drifting too far apart. Now, with paddles plying steadily, they were making good headway toward the dark line of jungle that marked the island. Barry Blake, in the leading “doughnut,” strained his ears for any sound of breakers that would indicate a dangerous landing place. There was none—only the rhythmical roaring of the surf on the smooth beach, and the slap-slap-slap of water against the rafts’ flat bottoms. They were a hundred yards from the head of a little cove when the clouds thinned enough to show the moon. For five short seconds the light was fairly clear. A scudding cloud mass dimmed it, but not before Barry had glimpsed a long, black shape moving out from shore. “Stop paddling!” the young skipper whispered. “Pass the word to Hap’s raft.... There’s a boat putting out from the beach—due to pass us within a few yards. Have your guns ready if it spots us, and keep your heads down.” “Sure, I knew me little tommy-gun would come in handy, Lieutenant,” Mickey Rourke muttered. “I’ll take the oilskin bag off and be ready when yez say, ‘Open fire!’” Tense moments passed. A patch of darkness blacker than the surrounding water moved into Barry’s range of vision. Mickey had seen it, too. He snuggled lower in the raft, the stock of his weapon tight against his shoulder. Abruptly a high-pitched, chattering voice broke out in the oncoming boat. Barry felt Sergeant Rourke stiffen beside him, waiting the word to fire. But that word was never given. A girl’s voice spoke from the darkness in clear American. “Quiet, Nanu!” it said. “That’s not a Jap boat, unless it’s upside down. Paddle closer and we’ll look the thing over.” Gusty sighs of relief went up from the bomber’s crew. “A girl! From the States!” they chorused. “So they want to look us over,” remarked Fred Marmon’s voice sententiously. “Well, _I’m a monkey’s uncle_!” Feminine laughter pealed in the darkness. There were two women in the strange boat and at least one white man, to judge by the voices. Barry thought, however, that he could distinguish other figures. “We’re the crew of an American bomber, forced down by lack of fuel this afternoon,” he explained. “We nearly turned a sub-machine gun on you people a minute ago, thinking you were Japs. If we hadn’t heard one of the ladies speak—”