In the meantime, racing breathlessly, the two boys watched the drifting of the white enemy parachutes across the sky. It had seemed at first that they would land not so far from the spot where they had stood. But a brisk wind carried them farther and farther away. “It’s going to be a race,” Brand panted, “but we’ve just got to make it. They may—may be spies. They—they must not escape!” After climbing the sloping pasture they came to a place of scattered shrubs and trees. At last the parachute nearest them vanished behind a broad beech-tree. “Come on!” Dave spurted ahead. “It’s now or never!” At last, bursting out from behind a clump of trees they came upon a silken bag lying on the ground. At the same time a dark shadow vanished into a clump of low shrubs. Without a word the boys separated, one going right, the other left. The clump was small. One or the other would come upon the man. And then— It was Brand’s luck to meet the man face to face. He was young,—not more than two years Brand’s senior. There was a savage, haunted look on his face. “All right!” he growled, showing his teeth like an angry dog, “You asked for it. You get it!” All this in guttural English. An automatic gleamed in his hand. The English boy did not move. The automatic rose, jerkily but steadily. Now it was aimed at the boy’s feet,—now at his thigh—his belt—and now— At that instant something with the force of an avalanche struck the Nazi flier across the knees. As he went crashing to earth the automatic exploded harmlessly, then fell into the tall grass. Ten seconds later both Brand and Dave were holding the man down, as Brand panted: “Tha—that was a capital stroke, Dave! I sup—suppose you’d call that a tackle!” “Right,” Dave agreed. “It’s really quite old stuff. They do it in the movies. I guess you’d call it a part of our American way of living.” He laughed softly. Brand went over the Nazi flier for weapons. Finding none, he searched in the grass, found the automatic, then turning about, said: “You may get up.” The reply was an ugly snarl. But the man, who wore a pilot’s insignia, stood up. “Mind leading the way?” Brand said to Dave. “Certainly not.” Turning his back on the prisoner Dave started toward the farmhouse. “All right, you. March!” Brand snapped. The prisoner followed Dave. With Brand bringing up the rear, they had not gone a dozen paces when from somewhere, not far distant, there came a most astounding roar. Starting in sudden shock, Brand all but dropped his weapon. “Wha—what’s that?” Dave’s voice trembled as he came to a dead stop.