"Your Uncle Samuel's," Fred radioed back, and opened his switch against further inquiries.
"Well, I guess the situation's clear enough," he said, getting up to stretch himself as best he could in their small quarters. Try as he would, he could not repress a yawn.
"If the President of the United States goes to those lengths to try to learn when we will get on European soil, I guess it's a mighty important mission we've been called on to handle," Andy opined.
"Yes," added Jack, "and from what I can make of that message, it's becoming a question of hours as to how the situation will turn."
"That seems to state it," Don agreed. "A matter of hours."
"Well, we've done our best, and against mighty unpleasant obstacles, but of course they won't figure very largely if, after all, we're too late."
"We're heading for Ireland about as fast as anything ever did," Jack informed them, and it required but a glance at the air-speed indicator to prove this. For there was scarcely a perceptible adverse wind, as these experienced aviators could discern by opening up part of the enclosed nacelle, and the indicator registered just a fraction above one hundred and twenty-two miles an hour.
"Coming, Mr. President," Andy muttered. "Coming, sir, like greased lightning."