“No he isn’t,” Dave said solemnly. “And neither am I. As I remarked in there, you usually smack the nail right on the head. And I think you got dead center again this time. It was okay, Freddy. There’s just one question you didn’t answer. And I sure wish you would. It would help you and me a lot to know the answer.”
“And the question?” Freddy demanded, and shot him a suspicious look. “An impossible one to answer, no doubt?”
“How—” Dave said, and there was no kidding in his face—“how do they figure to plug up the Canal?”
“An impossible question, as I suspected,” Freddy said, but there was no scorn in his voice. “Yes, how? And will we find out?”
Dave’s lips came together to form a thin grim line. He unconsciously clenched his two fists and squinted narrow-eyed ahead.
“We’ll find out!” he grated softly. “We’ve got to! But—but will we find out in time! Seven-Eleven. You know, Freddy, I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to meet anybody as much as I want to meet this mysterious bird they call Seven-Eleven!”
“Quite, me too!” the English youth answered. “But speaking of meeting people, right now I’d much rather meet the mess cook here. Feel like I haven’t eaten for hours. What say we try to get a bite or two of lunch, eh?”
“Freddy Farmer of the mile wide, and deep, stomach!” Dave sighed. “Okay, or you’ll be weeping on my shoulder from here on in. That’s the Officer’s Mess over there. Chase along. I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes. It just occurred to me that we’d better let Colonel Welsh know that we’ve arrived. Probably those two agents of his will tell him. But I’ll trot over and tell them to be sure to do that little thing.”
“Right-o,” Freddy said. “And I say, take a final look in both cockpits, just to see if we left anything behind, will you?”
“That, too,” Dave said with a nod, and swerved over toward the hangar line.