“Makes one want to be in an air-raid shelter.”
“Well, you won’t. We haven’t even got a cave. But there’s no need really. It’s got the whole island to strike, and it must be five miles long. The law of averages gives us one chance in a million of being hit.”
At that Stew settled back.
“That law of averages is mighty comforting sometimes,” Jack went on. “Take this war. We’ve eleven million men in uniform. How many do you think will get killed?”
“Maybe a million.”
“Not half that many, I’ll bet. That gives you and me one chance out of twenty-two of getting home alive. But maybe only a quarter of a million will be killed.”
“Forget that, can’t you?” Stew begged. “Death and that infernal howl don’t go so hot together.”
By this time the screech filled the air.
Then all of a sudden it dropped to become a mere whisper. “Say! That’s funny!” Jack exclaimed softly.
“I’ll say!” Stew drew a deep breath.