UNDER oak rafters, festooned with dried herbs, and toasting their feet at the cheery blaze of an open, roaring fire, the boys regained the Christmas spirit that had been sorely subdued in the previous dismal hour in the wave-tossed launch. The house that had thrown open a hospitable door at the bidding of Roque overlooked the bay, and its solid walls had resisted the storms of a half-century. Mine host, Spitznagle, had he been dressed for the part, would have come very near to the Santa Claus idea, and even as he was, some of the idea hung about him in a radiant circle. He could not, though, have possibly trimmed a tree in manner more satisfactory than he decorated the big, square table in the center of the wooden-walled dining-room, within easy distance of that first-class fire. Sizzling sausages, small mountains of crullers, fragrant coffee, mulled cider, and such like in quality and quantity, indicated a royal spread. Roque, who had been prowling around somewhere outside for a time, suddenly preceded a gust of sleety wind into the cozy interior. The Christmas spirit had apparently conjured up a bit of a kindly spell for him, as the iron man fitted into the scene with far less friction than the boys had anticipated, considering the mood of this driving force during the trying day. "Snug haven, this, eh?" jovially queried the late arrival, as he spread a pair of sinewy hands over the inviting fire. "You're spoiling these youngsters, Spitz," was Roque's side remark to the blooming boniface, at the moment stirring some savory stew in a glistening copper pot. Mine Host waved a three-foot spoon in mock protest against the playful accusation. "Nothing like that at all, my dear man," he declared in big bass tone. "I will not spoil but will cure these children of their hunger." "Draw up, my hearties," urged Roque, setting example by dragging an oak bench alongside of the bountifully laden table. Billy and Henri jumped at the bidding. "Where are the men that brought us over?" asked Billy, presuming upon the fact that Roque was in one of the rare periods out of his shell. "Back, I hope, where they came from," briefly replied Roque. "Those fellows are hardy stock," he added, "and can see in the dark. Don't worry about them." "Cuxhaven is some aircraft place, isn't it?" Henri put this wedge in the conversation. "Perhaps it is," acknowledged the secret agent, "and" (grimly) "it may soon return the upper-story visit just paid with a cloudful of warcraft that will start a general hunt for cover." "Had you ridden often in airships before to-day, Mr. Roque?" inquired Billy. Spitznagle muffled a chuckle by a slight fit of coughing when he heard the question, and muttered something to himself like "donner vetter!" Roque turned a quick eye upon the fat offender, and then gave Billy a smiling look-over before he made response.