“Niver be it said an O’Malley is hoggish. Will ye have a wee slab o’ pie, Mister Wilson or Mister Allison?”
“Thanks, no,” Stan answered. “I’m carrying all the ballast I can handle right now.”
“I say, old chap, could that be the second or is it the third pie you’ve had this afternoon?” Allison cocked an eye at O’Malley whose big mouth was open to receive almost half of one piece of pie.
O’Malley munched the pie. “’Tis but the third, Commander, and niggardly pies they make, too. Take the pies Mrs. O’Malley makes, now they are pies.” He grinned as he slid his hand under another quarter of pie.
At that moment an orderly appeared and handed Allison a slip of paper. Allison read it and scribbled a notation on it, handing it back to the orderly.
“Nothin’ iver happens in this here spot,” O’Malley was complaining as he fell upon the third quarter of pie. “And this mess has no idea of a proper pie. They have nothing but berry pie, which is little in the way of pie.”
“We’ll be back on night flights up the glory trail by tomorrow night, O’Malley,” Allison said. “But right now the O.C. wants to talk to the three of us in his office.”
O’Malley gathered up the rest of the pie. Allison scowled.
“I say, Irisher, you can’t go in on the O.C. with a platter of pie in your hand.”
“Sure, and that’s a fact,” O’Malley agreed. “Hold onto yerselves, boys, and I’ll fix it according to regulations.” He shoved half the piece of pie into his mouth.