some American naval
officers in their sitting-room on the ground floor. The cloth had not
been removed from the dinner-table, around which we were chatting, when
a certain strange sound reached our ears--a sound not to be identified
with the distant roar of the motor-busses in Pall Mall, nor with the
sharp bark of the taxi-horns, although not unlike them. We sat listening
intently, and heard the sound again.

"The Germans have come," one of the officers remarked, as he finished
his coffee. The other looked at his watch. It was nine o'clock. "They
must have left their lines about seven," he said.

In spite of the fact that our newspapers at home had made me familiar
with these aeroplane raids, as I sat there, amidst those comfortable
surroundings, the thing seemed absolutely incredible. To fly one hundred
and fifty miles across the Channel and southern England, bomb London,
and fly back again by midnight! We were going to be bombed! The
anti-aircraft guns were already searching the sky for the invaders. It
is sinister, and yet you are seized by an overwhelming curiosity that
draws you, first to pull aside the heavy curtains of the window, and
then to rush out into the dark street both proceedings in the worst
possible form! The little street was deserted, but in Pall Mall the dark
forms of busses could be made out scurrying for shelter, one wondered
where? Above the roar of London, the pop pop pop! of the defending guns
could be heard now almost continuously, followed by the shrieks and
moans of the shrapnel shells as they passed close overhead. They sounded
like giant rockets, and even as rockets some of them broke into a
cascade of sparks. Star shells they are called, bursting, it seemed,
among the immutable stars themselves that burned serenely on. And there
were other stars like November meteors hurrying across space--the lights
of the British planes scouring the heavens for their relentless enemies.
Everywhere the restless white rays of the searchlights pierced the
darkness, seeking, but seeking in vain. Not a sign of the intruders was
to be seen. I was induced to return to the sitting-room.

"But what are they shooting at?" I asked.

"Listen," said one of the officers. There came a lull in the firing
and then a faint, droning noise like the humming of insects on a still
summer day. "It's all they have to shoot at, that noise."

"But their own planes?" I objected.

"The Gotha has two engines, it has a slightly