"Oh, good grief, no!" Freddy cried. "I didn't know there was any special window. I just went to one and asked the chap for two good tickets to the next game. And he gave me these. I'll take them back and—"
"No, you won't, sweetheart!" Dawson interrupted, and shook his head. "You'll just be out that dough, and maybe it will teach you to use your head next time. We'll give the tickets to the first two soldiers we meet. But let's get back to the Bronx. Did the ticket fellow send you up there?"
"No, it was one of your blasted tube trains!" Freddy Farmer growled. "I asked the chap what tube I should take to get to Grand Central. He didn't understand me until I remembered that you call the tube the subway. So—"
"You mean you English guys call the subway the tube," Dawson cut in again. "How many times have I got to tell you that when in Rome shoot Roman candles! So you went to the subway, and—? Now what?"
Freddy Farmer didn't reply. He stood staring at something behind Dawson. Dave turned impulsively, but all he saw was a lot of people hurrying toward their respective destinations. He turned back and looked at Freddy.
"Okay, come up for air!" he growled. "What's eating you, anyway?"
"That chap over there by the ticket window," the English-born air ace finally said. "The chap in gray. I've seen him half-a-dozen times today."
"So what?" Dawson grunted. "It's a free country and a small world. What of it?"
"Nothing, except that the first time was in the lobby of the hotel as you and I were leaving," Freddy said. "And the next time he was three seats away from me in the Paramount. And the next time was in the restaurant; then at Madison Square Garden; and up in the Bronx, too."
"No kidding?" Dawson echoed, half expecting his pal to pull some kind of a gag.