For the hundred-and-first time Dawson looked at the information-booth clock. The hands said twenty-seven minutes of four now, and Dave made noises in his throat once again. He pulled two hockey-game tickets out of his tunic pocket and looked at them.
"For two cents I'd leave him flat and get somebody else to go with me!" he muttered. "I should have drawn the bum a map so he could use it to get over here from Times Square. He—"
He let the rest trail off as he saw Freddy Farmer hurrying toward him from the direction of the IRT shuttle train to Times Square. He fixed the English-born air ace with a disgusted eye and watched him approach. Freddy came up to him all smiles and slightly flushed.
"Waiting for somebody, old thing?" he greeted Dave.
"No!" Dawson snapped. "And my mother taught me never to speak to strangers. So scram, before I call a cop."
"Speaking of your New York cops," Freddy Farmer chuckled, "I wouldn't be here now, if it hadn't been for a bobby in the Bronx."
"Bronx?" Dawson exploded. "What the heck were you doing up there? This morning you said you were going to hear Benny Goodman's band over at the Paramount Theatre."
"And so I did," Freddy replied with a nod. "And it was absolutely topping. But—"
"Topping, he says!" Dawson snorted. "You should show your passport when you use words like that. You mean keen, or in the groove, or on the beam, or strictly the nuts. But what about the Bronx? Did Goodman lead a parade?"
"If you'll be so kind as to shut that big mouth of yours, I'll explain!" Freddy snapped. "After the show I had something to eat, and—"