Allison and Stan waited until he had finished. Then the three of them headed for the O.C.’s office. Their rap at the door was answered by a gruff voice and they entered.
The O.C. was a grizzled veteran of World War I. He looked at them with grim satisfaction. They were three of the best men he had, flying fools, ready to tackle any assignment.
“Sit down, gentlemen,” he said gruffly.
They sat down, O’Malley slumping into his chair with his head thrust forward. He looked lank and hungry as he sat there and anyone except Stan and Allison would have said he hadn’t had a square meal in a week.
The O.C. picked up a sheet of paper and stared at it, then he glowered at the three fliers. He cleared his throat and tapped the sheet of paper. His eyes were upon O’Malley. Suddenly he put the paper down.
“Something reminds me I have not had a bite to eat so far today,” he said. “Do you boys mind if I have something sent in while I’m talking with you? I won’t be able to get away later.”
“Certainly not, sir,” Allison said.
The O.C. was still looking at O’Malley. “Will you boys join me? A spot of tea or something?”
Before Allison or Stan could politely refuse, O’Malley answered, “Well, sir, I’m not partial to tea, but I could manage with a wee slab o’ pie.”
Allison glared at him while Stan struggled to smother a grin. The O.C. looked at them. “Would you boys have some pie?”