Freddy Farmer glared and pursed his lips as though he were striving to hold back the blistering words that rose in his throat.
The cab driver looked at him and scowled darkly. "How's about it, General?" he growled. "I can't keep my hack out front all afternoon!"
"Oh yes, quite," Freddy said. "Come along!"
After giving a look that should have raised third-degree burns on the Yank pilot's face, Freddy went over to the lobby desk and spoke to the clerk. Bursting with inner laughter, Dawson watched Freddy's face grow redder and redder as the desk clerk gave him the fishy eye. Then the clerk went into the manager's office. He came right out, though, yanked open a desk drawer, and handed a bill to Freddy.
"Now I have got to watch my step, and how!" Dawson chuckled, and walked over to the mail window.
There was something in the box. It was a telegram addressed to them both. Dave ripped it open and was reading the message just as Freddy Farmer came over. The wire read:
"Take seven P.M. plane for Washington La Guardia Airport. Report my office War Department on arrival.
Colonel Welsh"
"And so what?" Dave asked, looking at Freddy Farmer.
"So leave it over, I fancy," the English youth murmured with a frown. "I wonder what now?"