"Right!" Dawson cut in, and gripped his arm. "That Messerschmitt 110. They're not touching it yet. Must be the Kommandant's plane. Probably going to tag along and watch the slaughter, but keep out of the way."
"Yes, yes!" Freddy said excitedly. "But we—"
"My idea all along, pal!" Dawson breathed fiercely. "That's not the rat Kommandant's baby, that's ours, Freddy! If we can only get it off before they get us, we can pin the rest of those crates on the ground like nobody's business. But, Freddy!"
"Yes, Dave, yes?" the English youth asked impatiently. "What now?"
"Just a thought," Dawson said in a quiet, steady voice that surprised himself. "We'll get that baby off, and we'll raise merry heck with these birds, even if it's the last thing we do. That's the idea! Maybe it will be the last. I have a funny feeling that we've had more than our share of luck already. So—Well, if you'd rather we tried to swipe a single-seater Messerschmitt apiece, so that—"
"Rot!" young Farmer snapped angrily. "So that one of us might get away? Meaning me? Not a bit of it, Dave! We started the balmy business together, and by the Lord Harry we'll finish it together, one way or the other. So stop your silly talk, and let's get on with things. You have your gun, of course?"
"Right in my hand, kid," Dawson assured him. "And you're a pretty nice guy, Freddy, if I haven't ever mentioned it before. Okay, together it is. Keep low, and run like the dickens. If somebody gets in our way—well, it will be just too bad for him. They're going half nuts out there, now, so maybe we'll get the breaks and not be seen. Set, Freddy?"
"Set, old thing," the English youth replied, and pressed Dawson's arm. "Luck to us both!"
"We don't count," Dawson said, and pressed young Farmer's arm in return. "Luck to the Casablanca war conference, please God! Right! Here we go!"
Dawson pressed Freddy Farmer's arm once more, then wheeled around, bent way over almost double, circled the scrub bush, and went streaking out onto the desert strip at top speed toward the Messerschmitt 110 parked a good eighty yards away. Farmer bolted right after him.