“All that will change fast,” said the Young Lord. “The way things are going over there now those boys are going to have things to do. Ever do any flying?” he asked abruptly. “Yes—a little—quite a bit in fact. Uncle was a flyer in the World War. Not an ace exactly, but he got to like flying. He’s always had a flying crate or two about, and naturally I had to have a turn at them.” The Young Lord guessed, and quite shrewdly too, that Dave was being too modest about his flying. “I’m trying out a new plane tomorrow,” he said slowly. “It’s a two-seater. Want to go up? Just a little sky patrol. Nothing’s likely to happen.” Dave seemed to see that Tomahawk of the afternoon plunging downward apparently headed for destruction. He wanted to say “no”. For some reason his tongue wouldn’t form the word. So he said: “Yes. Sure. I’d like to.” “Righto.” The Young Lord reached for the door of his big old English car. “I’ll be after you in this bus at 10:00 A. M.” His motor roared. He was away. “Now why did I say that?” Dave asked himself aloud. “Say what?” He started. Brand was at his side. “I promised to go up with Applegate tomorrow.” “Sayee! That’s corking! Just what I’d like to do! In fact,” Brand’s tone was sober, “I want to join up. Since this afternoon I want to more than ever. Mother objects. Says I’m needed to manage the farm. Says the army needs our butter and fat cattle. This farm! Of course, we love it. All of us do. But when all of England is threatened—when the others are doing their bit—to be tied to the sail! God!” Brand stamped his foot. “It’s all the way you think, I guess.” Dave laughed lightly. “Well, I’ll be up having a look at your native land from the clouds in the morning. So, goodnight.” Half an hour later, in his bed beneath the rafters of that ancient house, Dave was asking himself: “Why did I come to England?” The answer seemed simple enough. This war was too big to miss—that is—miss seeing. But why had he persuaded Cherry to go with him to London where bombs were falling? Why had he promised to go up with the Young Lord in the morning? He did not know the answers. All he knew was that he felt like a fly caught in a web. The web did not have a very strong hold on him yet. He could break away if he wished. But did he wish? Not knowing the answer, he fell asleep. In another corner of that broad upstairs, her door leading into the children’s room ajar, Alice was hearing a shrill childish voice cry: “You’re a spy, a little lady spy. I’m a frog, a great big black frog. I’m going to swallow you—swallow you right down. Here I come!” This was followed by a low, half-suppressed exclamation, a giggle, then a loud “Shish.” After that all was silent. Alice was nearly asleep when suddenly from far overhead there came the roar of powerful motors. London was in for one more beating. Would those terrible bombings never end?