soul and body were at rest, that the sun was shining, that he had
passed through the valley of the shadow, and once more was a
sane, sound young man.

With a savage thrust of the shoulder he sent Lighthouse Harry
sprawling from the gun. With swift, practised fingers he fell
upon its mechanism. He wrenched it apart. He lifted it, reset,
readjusted it.

Ignorant themselves, those about him saw that he understood, saw
that his work was good.

They raised a joyous, defiant cheer. But a shower of bullets
drove them to cover, bullets that ripped the deck, splintered the
superstructure, smashed the glass in the air ports, like angry
wasps sang in a continuous whining chorus. Intent only on the
gun, David worked feverishly. He swung to the breech, locked it,
and dragged it open, pulled on the trigger and found it gave
before his forefinger.

He shouted with delight.

"I've got it working," he yelled.

He turned to his audience, but his audience had fled. From
beneath one of the life-boats protruded the riding-boots of
Colonel Beamish, the tall form of Lighthouse Harry was doubled
behind a water butt. A shell splashed to port, a shell splashed
to starboard. For an instant David stood staring wide-eyed at the
greyhound of a boat that ate up the distance between them, at the