Before falling asleep that night Sally found two faces appearing and disappearing before her tired eyes. By drawing on her memory she had been able to recall the face of Erma Stone, the Skipper’s secretary. Erma was tall and dark.

“Rather foreign-looking,” she told herself. She dismissed the idea that she might really be a foreigner and, perhaps, a spy. Foreigners could not join the WAVES, and on such a mission as this all members would be chosen with great care.

“She’s smart and has been successful,” she thought. “For some reason she does not like Nancy and me. It may be pure jealousy because of the favors just shown us, or it may go much deeper than that. I’ll be on my guard.”

The second face that seemed to hang on the black wall of darkness was the smiling countenance of Danny.

If she was troubled about Danny, as indeed she was, she might well enough have put her mind to rest for, at the moment at least, Danny was doing very well indeed. He was fast asleep.

Never given much to worrying, he had munched some iron rations, then, as darkness fell, had spread his, heavy coat over him and, using the side of the craft as a pillow, had drifted off to peaceful slumber.

His awakening was rude and startling. Something hard and wet, like a wadded-up dishrag, had struck him squarely in the face.

He came up fighting and clawing. One hand caught the damp and slimy thing. The thing bit his fingers but he hung on.

After dragging himself to a balanced position, he gave both hands to conquering the intruder.

“Feathers,” he muttered. “A sea-bird. Food from the sea.” At that he felt for the creature’s neck, got one more bite from the iron-like beak, then put the wandering bird to rest with neatness and dispatch.

Hardly had he accomplished this, when, with all the force of a big league baseball, a second object struck him squarely in the chest. Completely bowled over, he barely avoided going overboard. This intruder escaped.

After searching about, he located a small flashlight. He started casting its gleams over the sea. All about him the black waters seemed alive.

“Birds!” he exclaimed. “Thousands of them!”

He had not exaggerated. A great host of sea parrots, beating the water with their tough little wings, were making their way south from their summer home.

Three more of them fell into his small boat and were added to his slender larder.

“I must make the most of everything,” he told himself stoutly. “Men have lived for weeks on such a raft as this.”

At that, after watching the last ugly little traveler pass, he once more drew his heavy coat over him and lay down to peaceful sleep.

Next morning Sally awoke with mingled feelings of joy, sorrow, and fear. She was glad that the secret radio had proved to be so great a boon. Old C. K. could die happy. He had achieved a great success and this would not go unrewarded.

She was sorry about Danny. She would miss him terribly. “It’s not a case of love,” she told herself almost fiercely, “We’re just good pals, that’s all.” She did not believe in that word love. It could stand for so much and so little. A stuffy night on a dance floor—that, for some, was love. Men loved their ladies so well they killed them so no one else would get them. Bah! The word might as well be marked out of the dictionary. Perhaps the Old Man’s yeoman thought she was in love with Danny. Who could tell?

It was this same yeoman, Erma Stone, who sent a shudder running through her being.

“I won’t think of it!” She sprang from her berth to turn on the secret radio. Turning the dials, first this one, then that, for some time, she caught nothing.

“Subs are far away this morning,” she reported to Riggs in the radio room, as she passed on her way for coffee, bacon, and toast.

“That’s fine, Sally!” he beamed. “Keep up the good work. As long as the weather remains fair that secret radio of yours will be your assignment, yours and Nancy’s. Don’t sit over it all the time, but tune in for a few minutes every hour. We can’t afford to take chances.”

“Okay, Chief,” was her cheerful reply.

“If the weather gets nasty, we may need your help,” he added.

“It better stay fair.” Her brow wrinkled. “Danny’s out there somewhere.”

“The storm gods don’t care for Danny,” he replied soberly. “Nor for any of the rest of us.”

“Riggs,” she said, coming close and speaking low, “do you know any reason why the Captain’s yeoman should not like me?”

“Erma Stone? No, why? Doesn’t she like you?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“You never know about women.” Riggs looked away. “If one gets a grouch on me I keep my eyes peeled, that’s all.”

“Thanks, Riggs. One thing more, do you think they will send a plane back to look for Danny?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“We’ve come too far since then. Besides, a plane rising from our ship might catch the eye of some sub commander. That would be just too bad. This is a mighty important convoy.”

Sally drank her coffee in a cloud of gray gloom. There was nothing she could do for Danny, absolutely nothing. But when she came out on the deck, the sun was shining brightly, gulls were sailing high and all seemed at peace. Since there was work to be done she snapped out of her blue mood and stepped into things in the usual manner.

That night, since the weather was still beautiful and no dangers appeared to threaten, the Captain authorized a dance for the fliers, the sailors off duty, the nurses, and the WAVES.

Some of the sailors had organized an orchestra of a sort, two fiddlers, two sax players, and a drummer.

To Sally this seemed to offer an hour of glorious relaxation. She loved dancing and did it very well, too. It seemed, however, that a whole flock of gremlins had joined the ship, just to disturb her peace of mind.

The Captain was on hand to lead off the first dance, and chose her as his partner.

She wanted to say: “Oh, Captain! Please! No!” But she dared not. So they led off the dance. It was a glorious waltz. The boys jazzed it a little. Still it was glorious.

The Old Man was a splendid dancer. She lost herself to the rhythm and swing of the music until, with a startling suddenness, her eyes met those of Erma Stone.

From the shock of that flashing look of hate she received such a jolt, that, had not the Skipper held her steady, she must have fallen to the floor.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Dizzy? I shouldn’t wonder. You’ve been working rather hard and had a shock or two.” That was as close as he would come to speaking of Danny.

“It’s nothing!” Summoning all her will power, she pulled herself back into the swing. And so the dark siren was forgotten, but not for long.

Out on the wide open sea Danny had had a busy day. Where he was the sun came out bright and hot. After breakfast he began studying his watermaking machine, and, in due time, had water that was a little better than city water and not as good as that from the old oaken bucket on his uncle’s farm.

After that he skinned and cleaned his birds. Then he sliced the meat thin and spread it out on the edge of the boat, where the sun shone hot, to dry.

“That will do for dinner tonight,” he told himself. “If I only had a cookstove I’d get along fine.”

He would want something for supper. Perhaps a fish would do.

After attaching a lure to his line he cast out into the deep. At the third cast a gray shadow followed his lure halfway in. Then, rising to the surface, it thrust out a fin like a plowshare.

“Huh!” He hauled in his line. “Seems to me this isn’t Friday after all.” He thought what would happen if that shark threw one flipper over the side of his raft.

“It’s always something, but it ain’t never nothin’,” he murmured.

Setting his coat up as a shade, he lay down to avoid the sun. And there with the raft lifting and falling beneath him, he fell to musing on the width of the ocean, the number of ships passing that way, and the probability of a storm.

In the midst of this his eye caught a sudden gleam of light. A dark cloud was rolling along the horizon and from it came an ominous roar.

Apparently Danny need no longer wonder about the probability of a storm. The flash of lightning which had attracted his attention, together with the rolling thunder which accompanied it, made a squall, at any rate, a distinct possibility.