Dawson threw up his hands in exasperation.
"Sweet tripe, Freddy!" he cried. "It's past noon! Aren't you awake yet? It's obvious, pal, isn't it? Obvious that the invasion isn't going to pop right away. The High Command is marking time while the bomber boys give Germany a good going-over. So the experienced pilots that aren't needed in England have been sent back here to help with the training program. Don't worry, when the big show starts we'll be yanked back there, but fast. That's why I'm not tearing out my hair because I've been stuck on this instructing job. Because I know that when it's time for the balloon to go up I'll be sent there. And so will you. And so will all the others that flew back from England with us. Now do I make sense to you?"
Freddy Farmer nodded, but he didn't say anything for a moment.
"Yes, you're quite right, I fancy," he murmured presently. "I must be slipping way off the beam not to have figured that out for myself. But I wonder how long?"
"When the Allied High Command is darned good and ready, and not a minute before," Dawson replied. "Meanwhile we stick here ... and like it!"
"Maybe you can like it, but I don't," young Farmer growled, and glared at the window glass. "This blasted rain!"
Dave snapped his book closed, and tossed it on a nearby table.
"Check!" he grunted. "It seems to be letting up a little, though, so let's do something about it. A little of it may do us some good. Let's take a walk out by those orange groves. They looked pretty interesting from the air. How about it, huh?"
"Right-o," Freddy Farmer sighed, and got to his feet. "Anything's better than just sitting here listening to it!"