“Here, young man, where y’ think y’re goin’?” A pair of husky arms were wrapped about him and he was dragged to safety. His savior was Tim’s powerful companion. “Why, you’re little more than a boy!” The big man exclaimed after peering into the rescued one’s face. “I’m more than that,” the youth replied huskily. “If I were to tell you who I really am you might be a little surprised. But I’m not telling.” “Whoever you are,” said Tim with a wave of his strong arms, “you’re a darling of the gods. What you done tonight no other man could do an’ live.” “What’s more,” Tim’s partner added, “you’ve saved the life of many a woman an’ child. There was two tons of bombs in that big ship an’ she was ’angin’ over blocks an’ blocks of tenements. It was early. The first alarm had ’ardly sounded. They don’t get to the subway that quick, the women an’ the children, they don’t.” The young flyer was pulling at his chute. It caught and tore. “Here,” he exclaimed impatiently, handing the strings to the big guard, “take this home to your Missus. There’s some fine silk in it. And now how do you get down from this place?” “It’s right over ’ere,” said the astonished Tim as he led the way to a trap door. “You just go down that stairway. There’s a door at the bottom. You’ll find stairways leadin’ to the ground floor an’ the back outside door’s got a spring lock. Spring it an’ you’re outside. “An’ ’ere’s wishin’ ye luck,” the big man added. “’Ow about shakin’ your hand?” Two hands met in a hearty grip. “’Ere’s ’opin’ we meets again,” said the watcher. Five minutes later the mysterious flyer reached the good earth once again to lose himself at once in the avenues of darkness that are London in the blackout. _Chapter_ XX Dave Comes Marching Home Next morning Brand, whose time schedule for the day included only a short practice flight in the afternoon, asked permission to cycle over to the Hideout in time for breakfast. Still terribly upset by the losses of yesterday he wished to be among his own people. While breakfast was preparing he told of the sad misadventures resulting from their first patrol flight. “Bad business,” he murmured at the end. “The Fiddler gone, Dave gone, soon our flight will be at an end. “But we’ll fight!” His voice picked up. “We’ll fight to the last man.” For a time after that all were silent. Then Cherry asked, “Brand, did you hear the late news broadcast last night?” “No. What was up?” “The strangest thing happened. It sounds like a miracle. A bright flare, brightest ever seen, hung over a bomber ready to help destroy London, when a single Spitfire plunging down, down, down, loosed a burst of fire at the bomber. Then came a terrible explosion in midair.” “Got him!” Brand’s eyes shone. “But the Spitfire?” “He was blown against a balloon cable. He baled out. He landed on a roof. Then he vanished. Who does that sound like?”