“An’ it’s suicide,” exclaimed his mate.
As the silver bat curved down toward the bomber it let out a sound as of the ripping up of every sidewalk in London.
At this every watcher threw himself flat on his face, for from above came such a roar as had never been heard before, no, not even in London.
A moment more and fragments of metal came showering down far and wide.
The flare above was still burning. One watcher, braver than the rest, scanned the sky. What he saw was a pair of balloons belonging to a balloon barrage, a trap set for enemy planes. Between the balloons ran cables that in this strange light shone like threads of silver. The thing that caught and held the watcher’s eye was a silver spot clinging to those cables.
“That will be the Spitfire,” he said to his mate who now was sitting up. “The blast from that exploded bomber blew him there. I told you it was suicide. I said—
“And now may the Saints be praised!” His voice rose as he turned his eyes. Some distance below that silver spot a ghost-like circle had appeared.
“A parachute!” the watcher exclaimed. “And may the Nazis be confounded! That pilot of the Spitfire is still alive.”
“You’re quite right, Tim, me boy,” the other agreed. “What’s more, if I judge the movement of air rightly, he’ll be landin’ just about here.”
The roof on which the men stood was broad and flat. As the two men watched, the parachute and the dark spot hanging beneath it, which appeared to be the pilot, grew in size. Carried first to the right, then to the left, as if directed by the very breath of the Gods, it came ever closer to that broad rooftop on which the watchers stood.