darker on the floor in the corner. He watched ii
and it moved a little. That was him.
The man was crawling toward him. No, toward
the man who lay half overboard. He was after his
gun. Crouching low, Harry watched him move
until he was absolutely sure. Then he gave him a
burst. The gun lighted him on hands and knees,
and, as the flame and the bot-bot-bot-bot stopped,
he heard him flopping heavily.
'You son of a bitch/ said Harry. 6You big-facec
All the cold was gone from around his heart nov\
and he had the old hollow, singing feeling and he
crouched low down and felt under the square,
wood-crated gas tank for another clip to put ir
the gun. He got the clip, but his hand was cold
Hit the tank, he said to himself. I've got to cu
the engines, I don't know where that tank cuts.
He pressed the curved lever, dropped the empt}
clip, shoved in the fresh one, and climbed up anc
out of the cockpit.
As he stood up, holding the Thompson gun in hi
left hand, looking around before shutting the hatcl
with the hook on his right arm, the Cuban who ha<
lain on the port bunk and had been shot three time
through the left shoulder, two shots going into th<
gas tank, sat up, took careful aim, and shot him ii
Harry sat down in a backward lurch. He felt a