One day an enemy dive-bomber wandered into their “Sphere of Influence.”
Seeing the direction the bomber was taking, the Lark let out a wild whoop, barked “Tallyho!” into his receiver and then they were away. Climbing into the sun they prepared to head the intruder off.
This time neither was, in the matter of speed, a match for the Lark. There was a reason. The town for which the bomber was headed was Renton-by-the-Sea. In that small city the Lark had spent his happy boyhood days. Neither an industrial town nor a seaport, it was one of those charming little cities where tired business men and their families spend their week-ends at play.
“My home town!” the Lark roared into the receiver. “He’ll send some of the very houses I’ve known and loved for years spouting into the sky! Only he won’t.” Dave could hear his teeth crack.
And then the strange fellow’s voice boomed forth in song. “It’s a long way to Tipperary. It’s a long way to go.”
The Lark was now flying straight away from the sun. The dive-bomber’s pilot had not seen him. He was circling like a gull preparing for a sudden dive when the Lark came straight at him. Not troubling to get on his tail, the brave young defender of his home town let out a burst of fire, then went swooping past him.
An answering burst rattled against the Lark’s plane but did no harm. Banking sharply, the Lark came up beneath the bomber, stood his Spitfire on its tail, let out a second burst, then gripping his emergency lever he thundered out from under and away.
He was not a second too soon. The bomber heeled over to rocket toward the earth. It burst into flames then blew up with such force that Dave, some distance away, was set into a spin and barely escaped a crash.
Once more singing Tipperary, The Lark led the way home. After a time he broke off to shout:
“The small boys of my home town will be hunting souvenirs from that bomber for weeks to come. Oh, boy! How I wish I was a child again, just for tonight.”