A long-drawn shrill whine warned him that it was high time to beat a retreat. He was not a moment too soon. He regained the hut, but it took the united efforts of four men to close and secure the door. No one spoke a word, but everyone realized that the third outburst would be the worst, and perhaps the last. It came, accompanied by vivid flashes of lightning and ear-splitting peals of thunder that even made the heavy cases reverberate. Mingled with the loud roar of the wind was that shrill, almost unearthly whine that means mischief. Suddenly the interior of the hut was brightly illuminated by a flash of lightning. The roof, lifted by a particularly vicious squall, had vanished, leaving a trail of violently eddying leaves and bamboo rafters. Then, while the men were still blinded by the dazzling glare, the wind backed a full four points, struck the roofless hut on its weakest side, and the next moment the building was levelled. Buried beneath a mat-like mass of thatch, Beverley found himself prostrate on the flooded ground. Someone's rubber-shod foot was beating a tattoo on his face as its wearer endeavoured to extricate himself from an unenviable position. As Bobby was regaining his feet another brilliant flash gave him a brief but vivid glimpse of his immediate surroundings. His comrades were struggling through the debris, looking much like a litter of healthy puppies forcing their way through a covering of hay. The barricade of boxes had been overthrown, some of the cases lodging against the trunks of the palm trees, nearly fifty feet away. Many of the trees were bending until the tops nearly touched the ground; others, uprooted, were hurled like straws against those still standing, and formed a gigantic lattice-work. A dozen yards away the kerosene-lamp, with its glass completely shattered, lay blazing fiercely, the heavy downpour of rain tending to spread the flames. Guided by the blaze, Beverley made his way to the blazing pool of oil. Close by he saw a large box with cryptic markings in red paint. It contained a couple of hundred pounds of high explosives--safe to handle since the stuff had to be detonated by means of a primer, but not proof against the attack of fire. Already the flames were licking the box, and only the fact that the woodwork was damp owing to the torrential rain had prevented a disastrous explosion. Acting almost mechanically, yet conscious to a certain degree of the risk he ran, Beverley literally ploughed his way through the chaos of bamboo and thatch and seized the rope-handle of the explosive-case. Desperation lent him the strength of a giant. With a mighty heave he shifted the heavy case a full yard to windward of the burning oil; then, walking backwards with his body inclined at an acute angle to the slope of the ground, he dragged the deadly explosive well out of harm's way. Only when he desisted did he notice that the legs of his oilskin trousers were charred and smouldering still.