The English-born air ace jerked his head around and looked at him puzzled.

"Game for what?" he demanded. "What do you mean?"

"Taking our chances on getting out of here," Dawson said. "Everything looks like it's been sunk to the bottom. Heaven knows but what that n.a.z.i rat has tossed half a dozen water flares over the side by now. But ...

well, until I'm dead and gone I'll never give up trying, at least. No matter how much of a fool I've made of myself to date. Besides, there's always the chance that something lucky _for us_ might happen."

Freddy Farmer made an angry gesture with his hands as Dawson paused.

"If you've got something to say, Dave, for heaven's sake then say it!"

he bit off. "What are you working up to, I'd like to know? What do you mean, take our chances on getting out of here? You know perfectly well I'd risk anything to get out of this hole. But how? It's impossible! We even haven't a gun between us to shoot the lock and bolt off that door.

And even if he was lying about the window being sixty feet from the ground, how are we going to get up there? Fly?"

"Close that trap of yours, and keep your shirt on, and you'll find out!"

Dawson said sharply, but placed his arm on Freddy's shoulder. "I've got a key, see? This. Don't even know how it got into my pocket. Felt it in the lining as Yammanato was leaving. That's why I asked for him to raise the window. Look."

As Dawson spoke he pulled a match from his pocket and held it up. Wild hope had blossomed on Freddy Farmer's face, but it faded out in a flash as he stared at the match. He switched agonized eyes to Dawson's face.

"Don't, Dave, please!" he said in a voice that was close to breaking.

"This isn't the time for leg pulling, or any of your funny gags. Please, old man! It only makes me feel worse, and ..."

"Stop it, will you?" Dawson barked. "Sweet tripe! Do you think I'm wasting time kidding, _now_! Don't be a dope. This little match _is_ a hope for us ... I hope. Now, give me a hand lifting the table and stuff, that's here, over by the door. First thing is to block them off from getting in. No, save the questions. Just give me a hand, Freddy. And I'm not crazy, so help me!"

Freddy Farmer closed his mouth with an effort, and together they lifted a heavy table, two chairs, and a bamboo chest affair, across the room and wedged them as best they could against the door.

"Okay," Dawson said when that was done. "Peel off your tunic and shirt and tear them into strips. I'm going to do the same just as soon as I get old rags and papers over there in the corner."

But Freddy Farmer didn't move. He simply stood rooted in his tracks and stared at Dawson as though he believed his pal had suddenly gone stark, raving mad. He was still standing there rooted in his tracks when Dawson returned with an armful of filthy rags and old papers that he had gathered up from the corner of the room. He placed them in a pile close to the side wall and directly under the skylight. Then he straightened up and took off his own tunic and shirt, and started ripping them down the seams.

"Get yours off, Freddy!" he said. "Get them off fast. Don't you get the idea of the match, now?"

"No, I do not!" young Farmer replied, and fumbled with his b.u.t.tons.

"Unless you intend to set the house on fire?"

"No, just this pile of rags, cloth, and old papers," Dawson said, and motioned for Freddy to toss him his tunic. "And unless I miss my guess it will make plenty of smoke."

"Smoke?" Freddy fairly gagged. "Good grief, why?"

Dawson looked at him, and smiled.

"Boy, you sure are slow on the uptake today, pal," he said and pointed a finger upward. "That skylight. It's a natural for a chimney. If we can make enough smoke it will go pouring out of there. Maybe we'll even have to break up some of those chairs and toss the pieces on the fire. But we want lots of smoke to go pouring out of that skylight for people to see."

"Why, bless me!" Freddy Farmer e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "It'll ..."

"Absolutely, my friend," Dawson said grimly. "Somebody's going to see the smoke, think the place is on fire, and pull in the alarm. And if we can keep enough smoke pouring out it's going to be plenty embarra.s.sing for Mr. Yammanato when the fire department, and the police, start banging on his front door. In fact I hope it gives him, and every one of the rats in this place, a permanent case of heart failure. Anyway, it'll be an out for us, at least."

"Boy, the things you can think up!" Freddy Farmer cried softly as he practically tore his shirt from his back. "I always said you had the brains of a dozen people."

"Well, you've said it once, just now, anyway," Dawson grinned, and tossed Farmer's ripped tunic on the pile. "But let's say a silent prayer that that skylight doesn't act as a down-draft. Okay, Freddy, toss the rest of it on. I'm going to set her alight."

"Just a minute!" young Farmer stopped him. And then after he had closed his eyes tight for a moment, and had opened them, and nodded, he said soberly. "Right-o, Dave. Strike the match, and start the stuff burning."

CHAPTER TWELVE

_Flashing Finish_

Yellow throat-stinging smoke curled and swirled about the room where Dawson and Freddy Farmer were held prisoners by Yammanato. It stung their eyes, too, and half blinded them. It hung like a thick blanket of acid not more than three feet from the floor. For some ten minutes now, the two air aces had hugged the floor to keep under the smelly stuff and waited for an up-draft to take the smoke upward and out through the skylight.

"I guess you went wrong on this one, Dave," Freddy gasped. "This stuff is heavier than water, and it will never rise."

"It's got to, it's got to, Freddy!" Dawson said grimly. "It's our only hope of getting out of this place. And of maybe getting the rats here in this nest caught."

"Small chance of that, I fancy," Freddy said with a groan. "But even if the police and the fire department do come busting in here and free us, then what? The way we've messed up this job, it will certainly take something to face Vice-Admiral Stone and Commander Drake. They certainly won't love us for this business, I can tell you!"

"Maybe not, but we'll just have to take our medicine, Freddy," Dawson replied. "But the big idea right now is to get _out_ of here. You know there's always a chance that we may be able to do something. After all, the carrier force is only two days at sea. It's going to take longer than two days for them to get within flight range of Truk. At least, near enough for that n.a.z.i rat to skip off and get going. I ... doggone, I could cut my throat for the way things have turned out. After all the tight places we've been in, and wiggled out of them, to be caught cold like this. Boy, do I feel lower than a heel!"

Freddy Farmer didn't reply for a moment. He moved a bit closer to Dawson on the floor, and then reached out a hand and touched his flying pal on the arm.

"We'll get out, Dave," he said quietly. "We've got to, old chap. And you and I aren't licked until we're dead and buried six feet under, as you would say."

Dawson looked at him, and some of the telling strain went out of his smoke-streaked face. He grinned and winked knowingly at Freddy.

"Now you're talking, kid," he said. "For a moment there I was afraid that you had given up the ship for keeps. But you were just fooling me, and I should have known better. Sure we'll get out, and we'll still win somehow. You just wait and see."

As Dawson finished the last he got slowly up on his hands and knees, and crawled over toward the wall on his right. He was playing a hunch, and his hunch proved to be correct. There was a draft of air over on that side that was lifting the yellow smoke upward. As a matter of fact the smoke was beginning to pour out through the skylight.

"Give the gentleman a cigar; it's working, Freddy!" he cried out in a low voice. "Crawl over here and see for yourself. It's working, Freddy."

A few seconds later young Farmer was by his side and peering upward out of smoke-reddened eyes. He gasped happily, and instantly crossed all the fingers of his two hands.

"For luck, Dave!" he breathed. "This and a prayer that they will see it outside. I mean, that there aren't tall buildings around here that will hide it off from those in the street. Gosh! Dave! Look at that stuff pour out. I never knew that just a bundle of clothes and things could throw off so much smoke!"

"One of the very special Dawson fires, kid!" Dave said to him. "And if that amount of smoke going out that skylight doesn't attract plenty of attention, then I'm a Chinese uncle."

"Whatever that means," Freddy Farmer said with a chuckle. "Anyway, all we can do now is wait. As though we haven't been doing that little thing for years and years it seems. I ..."

Freddy cut off the rest as Dawson suddenly grabbed his arm and gave a shake of his head to be quiet, and listen. Breath virtually locked in their lungs, the two air aces stood perfectly motionless and strained their ears. A few seconds later they were rewarded by the sound of footsteps racing up a flight of stairs beyond their locked and barred door. And almost at the same time there came wild, high-pitched chatter in a language that neither of them understood.

"This is it, Freddy!" Dawson whispered in young Farmer's ear. "Sounds to me like those are the two rats who brought us our food."

"Sounds like them to me, too," Freddy replied. Then, pulling on Dawson's arm, he added quickly, "Better stand well out of line with that door, Dave. When the blighters find that they can't get in they may try to shoot their way in."

"Yeah, you've got something there," Dawson said.

But that was all he had the chance to say. The door was being tried now, violently. And it definitely sounded as if whoever was outside were having a fit because the door could not be opened. And then came halting words spoken in English through the door.