The running shadow ducked down, and in practically the same instant the night stabbed red flame, and a wasp of death whined by Dawson's face almost before he heard the crack of the shot. He ducked instinctively, and lost the running shadow before he could return the fire. "Keep low, Dave!" he heard Freddy Farmer's voice to his left. "Two of the beggars, and they are both armed. Keep low and watch the fire escape on the rear side. Only way they can get off--" If Freddy Farmer said any more Dawson didn't hear it. He was in the act of turning and moving toward the rear of the building roof when something moved in front of him, and a thunderbolt slashed down out of nowhere to hit him on the head. As his knees turned to rubber, and buckled, he flung out his arms in a desperate effort to grab hold of something that would help him remain on his feet. But there was nothing but thin air there to grab hold of, and he fell headlong on the roof. Whether he was hit by another thunderbolt, or it was just hitting the gravel-topped roof, he didn't know, but in the next second he had lost consciousness of everything. Everything, save that he was spilling down into a huge bottomless hole that was filled with pitch darkness and utter silence. And then even that was no more. CHAPTER SIX _When England Stood Alone!_ A thousand little demons romping through Dave Dawson's head with sharp pointed spears gradually dragged the Yank air ace back to consciousness. He opened his eyes, and then instantly closed them as the sun itself seemed to be perched on the end of his nose. He groaned and sucked air into his aching lungs. "Steady, Dave, old fellow," he heard Freddy Farmer say. "You got bashed a good one that time. Anybody else's head would have been caved right in. But just take it easy. Everything's all right now." "Yeah, everything's just dandy!" Dawson heard his own voice mutter. "What happened? Did I jump without my 'chute, or--Hold everything!" Dawson choked out the rest, opened his eyes, and forced them to stay open until the so-called sun perched on his nose didn't bother him any more. It was then he found himself stretched out on one of the twin beds, with the ceiling light directly overhead. Freddy Farmer, whose uniform looked as if it had been passed through a meat chopper in a terrible hurry, was seated on the edge of the bed with a damp towel in his hands. Dawson started to sit up, but Freddy pushed him on the chest to force him back, and then put the damp towel across his forehead. "Stay put, Dave," he said. "I guess you didn't hear me tell you to keep low." "Sure I did," Dawson grunted as the cool towel on his forehead seemed to drive most of the little demons from his brain. "But some guy was keeping even lower, and he let me have it. But, look, I'm okay. I've got to sit up. That ceiling light is burning holes in my face. No, Freddy. I'm really okay. I'll feel better if I just sit up. Gosh, I wonder what that lug used, a sledge hammer?"