"Rot, Dave!" Freddy snapped at him. "You're talking like an old woman. Come off it. We'll make it, you'll see. Blast it, Dave, we've just got to!" "Check, kid, check!" Dawson mumbled. "We've just got to make it, and how!" And with a half-nod for emphasis he unconsciously put his free hand to his throbbing chest. CHAPTER NINETEEN _Flight's End_ Darkness, and more darkness, and even more darkness. Constantly, forever, and eternally. And with it all the monotonous, nerve-pounding drone of the engine in the nose of the Mitsubishi. Ten million times it was all Dawson could do to refrain from screaming his head off, and diving right out of the plane into the black night air. It was the same minute after minute, and hour after hour. It was almost more than Dawson, in his condition, could bear. And as the night dragged on and on, tiny little fears began to mount up in the Yank air ace. It had been but a few minutes after the three to one air scrap when the Southwest Pacific night had arrived with a swoop and a rush, and closed in on all sides. However, as though the gods were favoring those two youths a little, there were no clouds in the night sky. Above and stretching far off to all the horizons was a solid canopy of glittering and winking stars. And so it had been but a simple matter to plot a course south by the stars, allowing for a slight correction either way. And so they had headed south at cruising throttle, and with a solemn, fervent prayer in their hearts that after the seven hours of darkness in that part of the world would come dawn and the definite knowledge that they were within sight of the New Guinea coast. Both realized that then would begin the most difficult part of the long flight. Though MacArthur's troops and planes were hammering hard at the Japs, the devils from the Land of the Rising Sun still held most of New Guinea. And, frankly speaking, the two youths could expect more trouble before they sat down on the Yank-held base at Port Moresby. However, they had won out so far, and against great odds, so there was more than a little joy in their hearts as they went winging south. For a long time they chatted back and forth about this and that for no other reason than the pleasure of companionship. Eventually, though, they ran out of words, and save for a short sentence now and then they both remained silent. As far as Dawson was concerned, that was perfectly okay. His chest was on fire, and it hurt him to talk. Also, there were little alarming spells of giddiness that came to him every now and then. He didn't dare say anything to Freddy, because that would add just one more worry to the English youth's stock. So he kept his mouth shut, clamped down hard on the knife-like pains in his chest, and flew doggedly southward, praying for dawn as he had never prayed in his whole life before.