With a roar, the light-beam let go a third time. Ben saw the edge of it graze their right wing-tip; the airplane swung wildly round and down, with the pilot fighting for control; the earth seemed to rush up to meet them, tumbling, topsy-turvy. Ben noted a warped black spot where the beam had touched the wing-tip, then surprisingly, they were flying along, level with the surface of the Hudson beneath them, and hardly a hundred feet up. "That was close," came the aviator's voice, shaky with relief. "I thought they had us that time. Say, that's some ray they have." "It sure is one first-class heller," agreed Ben. "Are you far enough down to duck it now?" "I think so, unless they can put it through the hills or chase us with it. Do you suppose those dodos thought that up themselves?" "Can't tell. They're right on their toes, though. Look!" He pointed up and back. Silhouetted against the sky, they could see three of them, flying in formation like airplanes. "Can we make it?" "I'm giving the old bus all she'll stand. The _Brisbane_ will come toward us though. Wait till those guys get going. They'll find we can take a trick or two." Yonkers again. Ben looked anxiously over his shoulder. The three silhouettes were a trifle nearer. Would they do it? 125th Street and the long bridge swung into view, then Riverside Drive and the procession of docks with the rusting liners lying beside them. Ben waggled the machine-gun, tried to adjust its sights and squeezed the trigger. A little line of smoke-puffs leaped forth. Tracer bullets--but nowhere near the birds. On and on--lower New York--the Battery. Wham! The water beneath and behind them boiled. Ben looked up. The birds were above them, too high to be reached, dropping bombs. "All right, old soaks," he muttered, "keep that up. You'll never hit us that way." Again something struck the water beneath them. The airplane pitched and swerved as the pilot changed course to disturb the aim of the bombers. In the distance the form of the cruiser could be seen now, heading toward them. As he watched, there was a flash from her foredeck. Up in the blue above them appeared the white burst of a shell, then another and another. One of the dodos suddenly dived out of the formation, sweeping down more swiftly than Ben would have believed possible. He swung the gun this way and that, sending out streams of tracers, but the bird did not appear to heed. Closer--closer--and then with a crash something burst right behind him. The airplane gyrated; the water rushed upward. The end? he thought, and wondered inconsequentially whether his teeth would rust. The next moment the water struck them. * * * * *