“Let’s see it,” Hampden urged.
McGee handed him the report. Hampden read it, whistled softly and passed it to Yancey, who read quite as slowly as he talked. A look of disappointment spread over his face.
“It’s a report, I reckon,” he said slowly, “but it’s about as satisfyin’ as a mess of potato chips would be to a hungry cowhand. It’s as thin as skimmed milk. Say, who won this fight? You or the other fellow?”
“I believe that report will give me the credit,” McGee answered.
“Maybe. And that last paragraph will win somebody a bawlin’ out. Cowan will ask you to change that. Looks like inefficiency on somebody’s part.”
“Perhaps it is. It goes as it stands. After all, it goes through channels to the Royal Flying Corps, you know. I’m flying their ship and still under their orders.”
“Well, when I get my first one,” Yancey replied, 100“believe me, they’ll get the full details, and when they get through readin’ it they’ll think I’m the bimbo what invented flyin’. Those white-collared babies at Headquarters have to get all their thrills secondhand, and this thing of yours is about as thrillin’ as the minutes of a Sunday School Meeting.”
At that moment Mullins, the peppery little Operations Officer, entered the room, his face a mass of wrinkling smiles. He walked over to the desk where McGee was seated and from his pockets dumped out a double handful of articles, such as army men had learned to list under the broad heading–“Souvenirs.” There was a wrist watch, a German automatic pistol, a silver match box, a leather cigarette case, a belt buckle bearing the famous “Gott Mit Uns” and a number of German paper marks.
For a moment McGee sat staring at them, then slowly pushed his chair back from the table as he looked up at the smiling Mullins.
“What’s this–stuff?” he asked.