'Tis a dive bomber, the very colleen that smacked that pocket
battleship not so far back. An' 'tis a valuable specimen as must be
delivered to His Majesty's air forces," O'Malley said gravely.

"Go up on the bridge and report at once," the officer said and his voice
was not so harsh. He had seen the Hawk make a direct hit on the deck of
the Nazi battleship.

They clumped up to the bridge, Stan edging in ahead of O'Malley. There
ought to be a bit of diplomacy used and he was afraid O'Malley might not
use the proper approach to the skipper. The flag officer, who had
piloted them to the bridge, saluted smartly and retired. Stan faced a
grizzled man of about sixty. Steel-blue eyes regarded him frostily. Then
the commander smiled.

"My compliments, gentlemen," he said. "A mighty fine effort though a
bit risky."

"Thank you, sir," Stan answered. "This plane is a test job and we felt
she was so valuable she ought to be salvaged."

"I see, so you set that superdemon down on my deck." He gave Stan a
searching look. "Your navy training is good. How does it come that you
are not with the sea forces?"

"My friend, Lieutenant O'Malley, made the landing, sir," Stan said.

O'Malley grinned broadly at the commander. "Sure, an' it was pure luck,
the luck o' the Irish," he said.

"You will be cared for and your specimen plane will be landed," the
commander promised. "In fact, I watched you dive bomb that battleship
and I believe the navy could use some of this type of ship. I will make
a memorandum to that effect."

As they walked down from the bridge, Stan looked at O'Malley. "I never
asked you where you learned to fly," he said. "Could it have been the
Royal Navy?"

"It could have been," O'Malley answered and closed his big mouth tight.

Stan didn't ask any more questions. They went below and had a good
meal. Later they received word from the commander that the carrier was
headed across to the Norwegian coast, but they would be sent home by
motor launch. The Hendee Hawk would have to wait until the naval patrol
swung around their course and slipped into Portsmouth, or some other
port.

"How long will the swing take?" Stan asked.

The young officer who had delivered the message shook his head. "One
never knows."

They had to be satisfied with that. No one could tell what the squadron
would run into, or when their course would be changed. Nor, of course,
whether the carrier would ever see port again. In the meantime all