he side of the Nadia facing the commissary
was riddled.

"I'm believing all I've ever read about its taking a hundred pounds of
lead to kill one man in a war battle," said the New Yorker, grimly
humorous to the last. "How do you two C. E.'s account for it?"

"We don't," said Ford shortly. "We're merely thankful that all
humankind habitually shoots high when it's excited or in a hurry."

[Illustration: Brissac hurled the skillet like a clumsy discus]

Then he sprang afoot, secured his ax, and sent Brissac to the pantry to
rummage for other weapons. "A rush is the next thing in order," he
suggested; and they prepared as they could to meet it.

But the rush did not come. Instead of it, one man, carrying what
appeared to be a bundle of dripping rags, came cautiously into the open
and approached the shattered car. The night wind sweeping down from the
upper valley was with him, and the pungent odor of kerosene was wafted
to and through the broken windows.

"Oho!" said Adair. "Having safely shot you dead or disabled, they are
now going to give you Christian burial, Ford. Also, they will
comfortably obliterate all the marks and scars of this pleasant
evening's diversion. How near shall I let him come before I squander one
of the two remaining cartridges on him?"

"Wait," said Brissac in a half-whisper. In his second pantry rummaging
he had found nothing more promising than a cast-iron skillet--promising
because it had weight and a handle to wield it by. The intending
incendiary was no more than a few yards from his goal when Brissac rose
up opposite the nearest shattered window and hurled the skillet like a
clumsy discus. His aim was true to a hand's-breadth: a bullet from
Adair's pistol could have done no more. With a cry that was fairly
shogged out of him by the impact of the iron missile, the man flung away
his burden, dropped in his tracks and lay groaning.

They looked for another storm of lead to follow this, and hugged the
floor in readiness for it. When it did not come, Ford crept to the hole
in the car floor and listened long and intently. Half an hour he had
given Frisbie to get his track-layers together, and to cover the eight
miles of rough-laid rails with the construction train. What was delaying
him?

"You said Gallagher ditched your car: did it block the track?" he asked
of Adair.

"It did, didn't it, Brissac?" was the answer, and the assistant
confirmed it.

"Then that is why Frisbie can't get to