“Yes, sure I will.” She leaned forward. “I was a nurse, and just before the surrender I was told by a native that one of my best friends lay in a boathouse somewhere along the shore. He was a flier and had been badly wounded. “I slipped away to find him.” She drew in a deep breath. “I found him and did what I could. He lived six hours.” She paused to gaze away at the sea. “And in the meantime the fortress was surrendered?” Jack suggested. “Yes.” She went on. “That same native came all the way to tell me. They were wonderful, those Filipinos!” She paused again, to stare away at the white star that every moment grew closer. “And then?” Jack prompted. “The native told me that my friend’s seaplane, all gassed and ready, lay hidden in a tiny bay among the mango trees. I went there. I could fly, not too well, but enough to keep going. I climbed in, started the motor, then flew away from all that terror.” She shuddered. “I headed for America. Of course,” she laughed, a sort of choking laugh, “I knew I couldn’t make it, not all the way, but I did want to be nearer home if I had to die. You know—” “Yes,” Jack whispered. He knew. Every homesick American boy in all this vast Pacific knew. “I kept going,” she continued. “I don’t know how many hours I flew. Then my gas ran low. The sun was bright. I dropped down low to discover a dark speck on a broad sea. It was a large native canoe. I landed close to them. It was my only chance.” “They took me in and brought me here. There had been missionaries on the island, but they were gone. They liked me, those natives, because I could roast a pig just right and make fine cakes,” she laughed. “Because the Japs might come at any time, the natives painted me up, dyed my hair, and made me the daughter of the chief. And now,” she drew in a long breath, “here I am.” “Yes, and look!” Jack pointed. “There’s your lucky star. It’s on the side of Ted’s plane. It’s going to bring luck to you after all.” He had spoken the truth. The star that had shone through the fog was the white star on a blue circle that identifies American planes. Their boatmen gave a few more lusty strokes, and they were alongside. And there, sitting on the fuselage grinning at them, was Ted. “I start out to rescue you.” He laughed. “And now look! You come to rescue me and my plane!” “Is your plane badly damaged?” Jack asked anxiously. “Not so far as I can see.” Ted slid down into the canoe. “She’s got a few slugs in her. Her tail needs a bit of trimming. Three or four hours’ work should put her in shape.” “Then why didn’t you taxi in?” Jack asked. “Taxi? Move? Make a noise? Say!” Ted laughed hoarsely. “If you’d been attacked by a flying freak as I was, you wouldn’t even dare to breathe!” “The jet plane got you,” Stew put in. “That’s what I thought.” “The what plane?” Ted stared. “The jet plane,” Jack grinned. “It’s pushed about by a jet of hot kerosene blown up into gas and mixed with air. We know all about it.”