“Correct!” shouted the Lark. “His identical formation, V shape, one behind on his right, three behind on the left. In a scrap he’s safe. Perfect, I’d say for a hero.” Then in a roaring voice this red-headed pilot sang, “It’s a long way to Tipperary. It’s a long way to go.” Dave didn’t want to sing. Truth was, he could not have said a word. His tongue at that instant was glued to the roof of his mouth. Only the night before a veteran fighter had said to him, “Wick may be a coward. I wouldn’t doubt that. But he’s been a long time in the air. And that means just one thing, he knows how to pick brave men to do his fighting for him.” “Brave men,” Dave whispered as he clutched his ‘joy stick’ with a firmer grip. Then, through his radio headset, above the roar of motors, he caught a familiar sound. It was one of the tunes Fiddlin’ Johnny had played back there in the Hideout. It was “Londonderry Air.” Startled, as if expecting to see the strange boy fiddling as he flew, he glanced back. Johnny was in his place, all right, staring straight ahead. “Whistling!” Dave murmured. “How do they do it?” “Those Messerschmitts are looking for bombers, not fighters,” he told himself. “Haven’t seen us yet.” The young Lord barked an order into his receiver. “We’ll climb into the sun, then drop down upon them.” They climbed. They circled until the sun was at their backs. Then, with motors booming, they swept down upon the enemy. With a sudden burst of speed the Messerschmitts scattered. Two planes alone remained in formation. “That will be Wick and his bravest guard,” Dave told himself as a thrill coursed up his spine. He was all for the fight now. Gladly he would have followed that pair, but it had been agreed that in a case of this kind the flight leader and the Lark, most experienced men of the flight, should step in where danger called most loudly. With the hot blood of battle at last coursing in his veins, Dave went after a single, fleeing Messerschmitt. He was faster than the enemy. Now a mile lay between them, now a half mile, a quarter. The enemy darted this way, then that. “Trying to shake me off,” Dave muttered. He was thinking at that moment of their shattered home. He should have sweet revenge. He was all but upon the Messerschmitt. One more burst of speed. Now it was time to press the button. One thousand shots a minute! No! He’d better drop a little, to come up from below. Three hundred and fifty miles an hour. This was life. Suddenly the air was torn by the rip and rattle of machine-gun fire, not his fire but another’s. Slugs tore into his right wing. Gripping his emergency boost, he set his plane banking madly to the left. Forty seconds of this, then he let go that emergency lever. Standing on one wing, he executed a mad whirl, then righted himself. “What had happened?” As his eyes swept the sky he heard again that weird whistle, the Fiddler’s, doing “Londonderry Air.”