"Swell, perfect, pal!" Dave said with a chuckle. "Keep right on feeling that way, and everything will be okay."
"Not much it will!" the English youth grated. "And what the deuce do you mean by that crack, anyway?"
"I mean that I've seen you like this before, and plenty!" Dawson told him, and squeezed his arm in the darkness. "And those other times you just hauled back and knocked 'em high, wide and handsome. So it's okay by me, kid. Very much okay. You'll get us some action, if I don't."
"Thanks, old thing," Freddy said with a faint huskiness in his voice. "And I am a rotter to try and drag you down, too. Sorry no end, Dave. I'll try and buck up and not be such a wet wack."
"Wet smack!" Dave corrected with a laugh. "Holy smokes! Aren't you ever going to learn to speak the language, huh?"
The English youth grunted, but before he could make any reply to that there came the final lurching motion as the U-boat broke surface, and even in their steel-walled prison they could hear the sounds of feverish activity. A moment or two later they could tell that the U-boat was motionless on the surface. And then more sounds, the whine and grind of turning gears, caused them to guess that the small seaplane was being hoisted up out of its hold hangar.
Suddenly, Dave began to chuckle softly. And Freddy Farmer peered at him in the darkness.
"What's wrong with you, Dave?" he asked, "What's so blasted funny?"
"I was just thinking," Dawson replied. "Remember that stuffed shirt ground major at the Broome field in Australia?"
"The one whose feet you dusted off with the prop-wash of the plane?" the English youth echoed. "Yes, I remember him. What about him?"