Barry flung open the cover of the teakwood box she indicated. Inside, packed neatly with a few feminine belongings, were a number of old, clean cloths. Barry snatched out a threadbare pillowcase and a man’s ragged white shirtsleeve. With these, he made his way to Nanu who sat in the stern with his hands clasped around his thigh. The native boy’s wound was a clean puncture. The small-caliber, steel-jacketed bullet had passed through his thigh muscles just above the knee. Fortunately it had missed the larger artery and the blood had already begun to clot. Barry applied a cloth pad to each bullet hole, binding them tightly in place with strips of the old pillowcase. Throughout the operation, Nanu lay quiet. When Barry slapped him on the shoulder and told him, “Everything’s okay!” the boy’s eyes had lost all trace of fright. Meanwhile, Claire and Hap were dressing Dora’s hurt. A bullet had gouged her forearm, making a painful but not a crippling wound. Claire showed considerable skill in the bandaging. She had brought her nerves fully under control, and was giving sharp orders to Hap. Barry glanced at the splintered mast and fallen sail. Before much progress could be made, it was evident that the catamaran would have to land for repairs. At present it looked so thoroughly wrecked that the most suspicious Jap patrol pilot would hardly waste bullets on it. The same thoughts were evidently in Curly Levitt’s mind. Standing up beside his skipper, he pointed to a fairly large island, seven or eight miles to leeward. “We can go ashore there tonight, Barry,” he said. “With the sail hanging on the stump of the mast as it is now, we’ll drift toward that island at the rate of about one knot per hour. Everybody can keep out of sight under the mats and wreckage. We’ll tie the steering oar in place and let the wind do the rest....” “No!” Glenn Crayle’s shout interrupted him. “You’re foolish to go any nearer to land. The Japs will bomb us. They’ll shoot us down like dogs. You’ve got paddles, haven’t you? Start using them, then, if you’re not too lazy! I forbid you to head for shore, Blake!” “He’s crazy as a loon,” Curly muttered. “How are we going to shut him up, Barry?” The young skipper made his way forward to where Crayle sat binding a handkerchief around his grazed shin. He took a firm grip on the shell-shocked pilot’s shoulder. “Look there, Crayle,” he said, pointing to a black triangular fin that showed above the oncoming wave. “That shark is hungry. He smells blood. He’ll probably trail this boat till it lands—unless one of us falls overboard. Be quiet and behave yourself, or _you’ll be that one_!” Crayle’s mouth fell open. In sudden terror he gazed at the approaching shark. “No! No!” he moaned, clutching Barry’s arm. The young skipper freed himself with a grimace of disgust.