"I don't know a thing about your mission, Dawson," he said. "But there is one thing I do know. And definitely so!"
"Which would be?" Dawson echoed.
"That you'll accomplish whatever it is," the other replied firmly. "And with flying colors. You two are just the type. And your past record jolly well proves it, too!"
"Thanks," Dave said quietly. And silently wished that at the moment he felt equally as confident of success.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Moscow Magic
Freddy Farmer heaved a long sigh, and shifted, around a little so that he could glance out the bomb compartment window. But what he saw was exactly the same picture he had seen ten minutes before. In fact, it was the same picture he had been looking at for the last two hours or more. Nothing but mass upon mass of dirty grey clouds through which the Wellington bomber prop-clawed, as though it could go on forever, and still there'd be clouds.
"Great grief!" the English youth suddenly groaned. "I've seen enough clouds to last me for the whole war. And two or three other wars, for that matter."
"You and me both!" Dave Dawson grunted, and squinted out the little window on his side. "Talk about your blind flying! This sure isn't any fun for Squadron Leader Freehill, and Navigator Parsons, up front. I'm glad I'm a passenger on this trip."