"Then they didn't tell you that part, sir?" Freddy Farmer murmured. "That it was Dawson who threw himself flat to the sidewalk and screamed for the police while I battled those two chaps?"
"Ouch!" Dave cried, and clapped a hand to his forehead. "Will I never learn to keep my big mouth shut!"
CHAPTER FOUR
Next Stop, England!
Grey skies covered the world from north to south, and from east to west. Standing on the tarmac of the now world famous Botwood field, from which countless planes had been flown by unsung air heroes to eagerly awaiting pilots on the other side of the Atlantic, Dave and Freddy tugged their flying suit collars a bit tighter and looked at each other, bright-eyed.
"Some sight, hey, pal?" Dave grunted, and swept a hand toward the array of war planes of all descriptions that lined all four sides of the field. "It would kind of make Adolf feel sick, if he could get a look at that bunch."
"He'll hear them, if not see them, soon enough!" Freddy replied with emphasis. "And I hope I'll be in one of them that's right over his head. I say! What beastly weather, though!"
"This?" Dave echoed, and looked at him in surprise. "Why, I should think it would make you feel homesick. I've seen plenty of weather just like this on your tea-drinking island. Holy smoke! Every time the sun comes out in England, you birds don't know what it is that's happened for the first couple of minutes. What's the matter, pal? Down in the dumps because you've been hooked for a bit of possible action?"
"No, not a bit of it," Freddy sighed. "Just the usual unhappy feeling. Man! How I'd love to be given a war assignment without having to worry about you being along to probably mess up the whole business! But I suppose that's the cross I must bear."