Glenn Crayle, who had remained until now in a shell-shocked stupor, came to life with a howl. A bullet had grazed his shin. He moaned for help, but nobody paid any attention. Barry Blake’s quick, sharp orders averted the panic that otherwise might have cost them all their lives. “Lie low, everybody. Whatever happens, don’t disturb the mats. Mickey Rourke, crawl outside with your tommy-gun and pretend to be wounded. Send the native women in under cover. That Jap will be back in two shakes to look us over. If he flies low enough to make sure of your hitting him, let him have it.... Otherwise hold your fire.” Claire Barrows began weeping hysterically. “We’ll all be k-killed,” she sobbed. “Like rats in a c-cage. I’m g-going to jump overboard and—” SMACK! Dora Wilcox slapped her friend hard across the mouth. “Stop it, Claire, this instant!” she commanded. “A fine example you’re setting Alua and Lehu. For shame!” As Claire’s sobs quieted, Mickey’s voice reached the others from outside the shelter of mats. “The Jap is comin’ in low to see what he did to us,” the little sergeant reported. “I’ll play dead till the last second, and then pour it into him. He’s a _Nakajima_ single-engine job, equipped with floats.” The hum of the Jap’s motor grew louder. Once more his machine guns opened up, but this time his burst was high enough to miss the catamaran’s crew. It finished the mast which fell across the matting, scaring the women but doing no damage. As the plane roared low overhead, Mickey Rourke’s gun opened up. Its harsh, deadly chatter held the hopes of fourteen souls. It ceased, and the Jap’s engine song rose sharply. “I hit him!” came Mickey’s whoop. “He’s zoomin’.... He’s goin’ into a stall.... His engine’s smokin’ and he’s goin’ to crash!” Without waiting for more, the catamaran’s company threw aside the concealing mats. They were just in time to see the _Nakajima_ end her tail-spin in a great splash and a burst of flame, less than two hundred yards away. The fight was over. Except for a patch of burning oil on the water, and the three wounded persons on the sailing craft, it would have been hard to realize that the thing had not been a nightmare. “’Twas just as I saw it in me dream,” Mickey Rourke was saying. “The only part I didn’t see was Nanu and Miss Wilcox bein’ wounded—” “What’s that?” Barry cut in. “You wounded, Dora? Let me see what’s under that cloth!” The girl shook her head. Her face was pale, but the hand with which she pressed a folded towel to her left arm was perfectly steady. “See to Nanu first,” she replied. “Hurry—or I’ll do it myself. He’s lost too much blood already. You’ll find clean cloths here in my little chest.”