Dim prints fluttered out from the varnished wall--the living-room wall--in the strong breeze blowing through an open window: Pershing, American Commander-in-chief; Foch, Marshal of France; Haig, who held the line; Cadorna, of Flamina’s Italy; Albert of Belgium, kingly of courage!

The Camp Fire Group had held an indoor guessing contest the night before, identifying these and lesser leaders of the Great War, without seeing the names. The pastime over, they had pinned the leaders up on the bare wall of that bungalow living-room.

Now the sea-breeze took its turn at identification as it crept through the window--in the wake of an excited girl whose wildly throbbing heart, like a lamp turned high within her, guided her straight to an adjoining dormitory, a glass-paneled sleeping-porch, closed at present, where was a long row of dim cots.

“I don’t need to grope around for matches. Olive keeps her flash-light by the head of her bed--since she and I haven’t been sleeping in a tent any longer.... What’s this? Oh! her secret that shines in the dark--the powder for radio-paint in that tiny bottle. Perhaps if I wetted a little of it--smeared some more on the dory’s bow--and rowed out a little way, to signal, I’d attract attention better; ’twould act as a foot-light--if they saw it through the glasses--between flashes! Well--here goes!”

Yet as she fluttered forth again through the wind-gap of that window, the Flame turned briefly and waved her hand to those World Heroes upon the wall. Not much tribute to them! At the moment one and all were summed up in the highly colored mental print of her brother Iver, fighting over there.

“He taught me to signal with Morse and Semaphore--to read Wigwag, too! He was wounded in both legs, the very first time he went over the top--crawled on, leading his men--that was at Chateau-Thierry. He’d want me to use the knowledge I got from him.... I’d do it even if that spy were to see me, turn back and kill me, maybe, before the Coast Guards get here.... Priceless stuff, Olive says, this radio-powder. Bah! who cares, if it helps? Now--now, she’s a regular lightning-bug, my camouflaged dory!”

Lost to all sense of economic values, she was wetting a full big pinch of the costly powder on her burning palm, with a drop or two of sea-water, smearing it over the dory’s camouflaged bow--then shoving her off, forgetful even of Betty, a trembling Holly--though of loyalty still evergreen--cowering upon the beach-edge.

“Now! what’s the attention-signal--Morse? Let’s see!” The girl’s left hand pushed her hair back from her brow, she crouching in the lightning-bug dory, a few yards from shore. “Yes! ‘A,’ sent over and over; ‘dit-dar-dit-dar-dit-dar--dit,’ if signaled with a buzzer; short, long, short, long, so on, with the light!”

She was standing now--as the spy had done in the motor-boat, the launch which had melted off into far shadows of the bay--holding her signaling flash-light aloft, pressing her thumb lightly, with rhythmic unevenness, upon a little lever at the side.

And, lo! the shore which she was facing--the wild island-shore merging into the long sand-bar--awoke, opened its eyes, answered with bright blinker flashes of understanding from lonely watch-tower and patrolling surf-man on his tiresome beat.

“Short, short, long! That would be dit-dit-dar--meaning U. N.--they got me! Now--now what message shall I send?... Oh, I wonder if he’ll get me, the spy, turn back an’ get me, before they come? Never mind; Iver----”

One sidelong glance out into the curtaining shadows of the bay! Then, “Catch spy in launch. Out--bay!” slowly spelled out the winking flash-light, pressed by a girl’s unfaltering little thumb.

And fast as the shore had blinked, it responded! There was something unusual about the direct, correct message; about a strange, faint unearthly shimmer, seen through binoculars, bathing the spot--the boat--whence it came, when the flash-light wasn’t speaking.

Tower and patrol, both, flashed their message to the white Coast Guard Station upon the island-shore. A strong search-light scanned the bay.

In its radiance forth leaped the light steel life-boat, rowed by strong arms; the Coast Guard power-boat, the old self-bailer, too, hustling as she could do, in an emergency.

“O dear! I hope she can show a little more speed--that self-bailing ark--than Captain Andy gave her credit for. Otherwise, she won’t overhaul the launch! He--may--get away, after all!... Oh-h, there’s Betty calling! Poor little Betty!”

With signal-flashes in her finger-tips that seemed to light the water round her, the sands ahead, the Flame shoved her dory’s nose up on to the beach again.

A wild-eyed Betty met her! Some one else!

“Is it true--true--that they’re after a spy, the Coast Guards--that you signaled them? You?” cried Atlas.

Sara turned a flash-light beam upon him and nodded.

“We--we’ve been searching for you! Just got here!... Oh! isn’............