The sun was ten o’clock high when Billy hoisted himself with his elbows and realized that Henri and himself had been singularly favored by the usually exacting aviation chief, who tolerated no lazybones around quarters.
“Hi there, sleepy head,” he called to his chum, who was still drawing long breath through a wide-open mouth.
“Hold your peace,” growled Henri, turning for another snooze.
But Billy, now wide awake, and in frolicsome mood, had his comrade out of bed by the heels, and it was not until they had knocked over about everything in the room that they desisted from their riotous wrestling.
“Blame your gaiety,” panted Henri; “why couldn’t you let a fellow rest?”
“You’d be a Rip Van Winkle if you had half a show,” guyed Billy.
In more serious turn the boys went out to look at the picture above the stair landing, to see if any telltale strap of the concealed belt was showing. Nothing, however, to betray their secret to the curious eye was in evidence.
“A good job for a dark night,” observed Billy, going down the stairway, two steps at a time.
“All the grub gone?” he inquired of Corporal Romeroff, on mess duty.
The latter grinned, and showed the boys two well-filled platters on a near-by table.