"Scotty, there are some kinds of fire you must meet with fire, however much you hate the job. This is one of those cases. If I am right and can pull this off, it will mean millions upon millions for the Stars and Stripes and it's now only a question of days when we will be at war with Germany, too."
"Are you sure of that?"
"Yes, as sure as hell! Are you going to help me?" I shot this at him in a rasping whisper.
"I didn't say I wouldn't," he finally blurted, "but I don't know how."
"Give me your hand," I said, grabbing that greasy member and shaking it firmly. When a Scot shakes hands on a bargain he's safe.
"Now, Scotty, have you taken gasoline yet?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
"Three hundred gallons."