"Well, I guess I've got to admit that you're aces, too, Freddy," Dave said, a moment later and reached back a hand.
Freddy took the hand in his own and gripped it hard. Neither spoke a word. They didn't have to. All the words in the world meant nothing compared to the real meaning and significance of that handclasp. It was Freddy who finally broke the silence.
"What am I?" he said gruffly. "Your precious little girl friend, or something? Let go, and get to work."
"Now isn't that just like the guy?" Dave sighed and kept his eyes on the sea and horizon ahead. "I hold his hand to help stop him shaking and trembling with fright, and he bawls me out. Yes, the English are a screwy race, no fooling. I...."
"Shut up, Dave!" Freddy cut in sharply. "Take a look to the left! What in the world do you make of that?"
"Huh?" Dave echoed and bent forward slightly to stare down over the left wing of the plane at the rolling grey green swells of the North Atlantic. "What do you mean, look? I don't see a thing but water."
Freddy reached forward and rapped him sharply on the shoulder.
"Not down, up!" he shouted. "Off to the left about three miles, and a couple of thousand feet above us. It's a plane!"
Dave jerked his head up and stared hard in the direction indicated. For a couple of seconds he saw nothing but sun bathed blue sky and scattered patches of clouds. Then suddenly he saw the flash of sunlight on wings. He took a good second look and gave an angry shake of his head.
"Now what?" he grated. "Aren't we ever going to get started on anything? That's a British plane. From here it looks like a Fairey 'Swordfish' torpedo plane of the Fleet Air Arm. It's a biplane, and not a low wing monoplane job like this one we're in."