"No," Dave said. "Not that. We'll do it, or else. What bothers me is that it seems too easy. I mean, it's all cut and dried. We do this and we do that, and such and such happens. Just think back, pal. Did any of the jobs we've tackled ever go off like clockwork according to plan?"
The English youth didn't answer for a moment. He sat peering out the forward window at the star dust far ahead on the horizon.
"Okay, sleep, if you don't feel like talking," Dave growled after the silence had stretched out to over a minute.
"I was just trying to recall, that's all," Freddy said. "No, I can't think of single job that didn't run into a snag before we had it all tucked away."
"Well, that's what I mean," Dave said and automatically trimmed ship a bit finer. "On paper it doesn't look so very tough. True, we may run into a flock of Nazi planes, but we've met Nazis before. And we may hit some weather, or maybe get a plastering from the raider's anti-aircraft guns once she gets wise to us. Then, too, we may stub our toes come dawn, and run smack dab into a mess of British planes out hunting for us. And, boy, I wouldn't like that at all. However, it's not those kind of possibilities that bother me."
"What other possibility is there?" Freddy asked. "Heaven knows you've named enough to bother me, I fancy!"
"The unsuspected possibility," Dave said and banked slightly more out toward the broad bosom of the North Atlantic. "I mean, something that neither of us, or Manners, dreamed would happen, I can't name it. I've just got a hunch, that's all. You know, the old feeling?"
"I say, cut it!" Freddy groaned. "You and your blasted hunches!"
"Well, they've tinkled the bell in the past a few times," Dave said with feeling.
"Exactly why I say, cut it!" Freddy moaned. "Your blessed hunches always turn out to be fact; cold fact, with bullets for trimming! Let's talk about the weather and let the future bring what it will. I...."