“’Tis a lot too many brass hats this man’s army has around and I don’t like them, but I’ll do this Wing Commander a favor, bein’ as he seemed a bit worked up over that new Jerry gun.” O’Malley looked at the pie counter but shook his head. Five pies in one afternoon might spoil his dinner and he planned to enjoy a real feed.
Allison shoved off to report to the O.C. while Stan and O’Malley went over to the phonograph and turned it on. O’Malley lay on a divan with his feet well above his head. Stan sat back in a deep chair. Before dozing off he wanted to ask the Irisher a question.
“Whatever made you pull that crack to the Wing Commander?”
“Sure, an’ I was just offerin’ to do me bit of winnin’ the war,” O’Malley said and closed his eyes.
Stan stared at him. It suddenly dawned upon him that O’Malley hadn’t been fooling, he meant to deliver a Messerschmitt One-Ten to Wing Commander Farrell. He began to laugh. O’Malley opened his eyes and a grieved expression came over his face.
“You laughin’ at me?” he demanded and there was a dangerous glint in his dark eyes.
“No,” Stan said slowly. “I was thinking about how Wing Commander Farrell will look when you plump that gun down on his desk.”
O’Malley grinned and closed his eyes again. “I’ll let you go along with me,” he said.
Stan studied the wild Irishman. He knew enough about O’Malley to expect anything from him. There could be no doubt but that Red Flight was in for some real circus stuff the next day. He hoped they contacted a flight of Messerschmitt One-Tens over the channel. He had no relish for the idea of trailing O’Malley into Germany and covering him while he filched a gun from one of Hitler’s arsenals, but he was anxious to find out what scheme the Irisher had up his sleeve.
Allison came back and plumped into a chair. “I was lucky. The Wing Commander never suspected that I was with this wild Irishman. He thinks our hungry friend here is a ground man escaped from a nut-house.”