Dawson held out the bullet-creased wings for Freddy to see.
"One of those birds was a sharp shooter," he said with a mirthless chuckle. "Only not quite sharp enough, thank my lucky stars. Kind of close, huh?"
Freddy Farmer's eyes widened, and for a moment all he could do was stare at the damaged wings and then at the torn space on Dave's shirt where they had been.
"Good grief, I can hardly believe it!" he finally gasped. "It's—it's a miracle, Dave. You should be dead, by rights, you know."
"Thanks, I like it better this way," Dawson replied grimly, and dropped the wings into his pocket. "If I believed in signs I'd take this to mean that it was only the beginning of something. And now that I come to think of it, I wonder if it is."
"Rubbish!" Freddy Farmer snorted. "It's a sign, all right. But it's a sign of how blasted lucky you always are!"
"Sure!" Dawson growled. "Also a sign that I've got to fork out dough for a new pair, and—No, by gosh, I won't! The pin on these is okay. So darned if I won't wear them for continued luck. I'll—"
He cut off the rest as Captain Banks came hurrying into the compartment. The worry on the bomber commander's face faded away as soon as he laid eyes on the pair.
"You two okay, eh, thank God!" he grunted. "Well, then I can bawl you out. What was the big idea, anyway? Didn't you stop to remember that there're eight other guys on this sky wagon?"
"Huh, Skipper?" Dawson echoed. "Come again?"