ticklish spots than his and come out on top; England expects every man to ... to pull himself together in an emergency. There must be some way out of this maze.

"Tom," he whispered, "hand me your flashlight."

"Sorry, Mister Johnny," the answer came; "it was broken when they killed me."

"Oh, that's right. I forgot you were dead, Tom. Can you help me out of this mess?"

"Sorry, Mister Johnny. But dying isn't so bad though, honestly—"

"England expects ... England expects...." Jonathan Robertson 7th was fighting hard to retain his sanity.

There came a chuckling sound ... not ten feet away now.

Light! Light! His shaking hands sought his pockets. Ah! Matches!

"Mind the gas, Mister Johnny." Good old Tom.... A shame he's dead.

"I'll have to chance it!" His voice was quite calm now.

The match scratched against the sandpaper.

"The devil! It didn't light. Steady now.... (Keep your paws off me just a moment longer, you scum).... One.... Two.... Three!"

This time the flame caught, flickered, was reflected for a split second in the eyes of a gaunt, stoop-shouldered young man at the other side of the tunnel, then burst into the searing glory of a thousand suns....

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