“Did you speak, sir?” he asked.
O’Malley was unabashed, even when the Wing Commander bent a frigid look upon the wreck of the apple pie on the plate at his elbow.
“I said it would be aisy, gettin’ one of them new guns,” O’Malley repeated.
“Perhaps you can bring one to my office not later than tomorrow night,” the Wing Commander snapped.
“And may I ask who I’ll deliver it to?” O’Malley opened his mouth and the rest of the pie disappeared into it.
Signs of apoplexy began to show on the Wing Commander’s face, but his voice was steady.
“Just deliver it to Wing Commander Farrell.”
“Sure, an’ I’ll hand it to ye personal,” O’Malley promised.
The Wing Commander bowed stiffly and turned away. The Squadron Leader wiped a smile off his lips and stared stonily at O’Malley. They marched off together.
“Now you’ve done it, you Irisher,” Allison growled. “That’s the man we have to fly under and I have to report to him within a half-hour.”