“Calm yourself, brother!” Red laughed. “If you had landed on your head from as high a point as he did, and then found out it was all brought about through a leak, you’d be suspicious of everyone too.”
“Maybe so,” Larkin answered, somewhat mollified. “What were you buzzing old Fuss Budget about?”
“I’ll tell you that to-morrow night–maybe.”
“Humph!” Larkin snorted. “I guess Rodd’s disease is catching. You’re tongue-tied too!”
Without reply Red led the way across the flying 168field to their hut. Entering, he began fumbling around in the dark for a candle stub. Larkin took up the search, by the aid of flickering matches, but the candle was nowhere to be found.
“It’s a fine war!” Larkin growled, as he began undressing in the dark. “All the letters from the States bear the postmark, ‘Food Will Win The War.’ I guess the Army is trying to save on candles, too.”
2
Before sunup the following morning McGee awoke and began quietly dressing. He did not want to awaken Larkin. When he had finished dressing he tiptoed cautiously across the floor, opened the creaking door ever so slowly and closed it with the same care.
Dawn was just streaking the east. A few birds were offering their first roundelays; the grass and trees were wet with a light rain that had fallen during the night, and to the northeast the distant guns were rumbling their morning song of hate–evil dispositioned giants, guttural in their wrath when dawn awoke them to a new day of devastation. Two or three sleepy-eyed air mechanics were making their way toward the hangars.
McGee stood for a moment outside the hut, studying the sky, which was a patchwork of clouds scattered 169across grey splotches that would turn to blue with the coming of the sun. Evidently the sky had been quite overcast during the night, but the clouds were broken now, though by no means dispersed.