"Blast their good shooting!" Dave heard Freddy's voice close behind him, and knew that the English youth was looking at what had happened to the compass. "Well, south it is then, Dave. It'll be dark in no time, now. And at least we can tell true south from the stars. But, after all, we're blasted lucky. So I guess we can't kick much, what?"
Dawson nodded, and dragged air into his lungs. The pain of it caused him to wince slightly, silently. But he managed to speak the words.
"Go south, I always say," he grunted. "But keep the old fingers crossed, Freddy. And don't forget the praying, either. We haven't got the Japs to worry about any more, thank God. But we have got an awful lot of ocean to consider. And—yeah—a plane that maybe won't quite make it.
"Rot, Dave!" Freddy snapped at him. "You're talking like an old woman. Come off it. We'll make it, you'll see. Blast it, Dave, we've just got to!"
"Check, kid, check!" Dawson mumbled. "We've just got to make it, and how!"
And with a half-nod for emphasis he unconsciously put his free hand to his throbbing chest.