A touch of sudden anger slashed through Dave, and the words were out of his mouth before he could check them.
"I'm not, sir!" he cried. "I'm never sorry when I get a Nazi, no matter how or where I get him. We saw them coming, and it was our job to do something about it. That's all there was to it!"
The Group Captain stared at Dave and made a solid line with his brows.
"Not sorry?" he barked. "Who said anything about not being sorry? I demand, however, that you apologize to me, and to my fighter pilots!"
"Apologize?" Dave gasped, as he seemed to lose his grip on things. "For what? For knocking off a couple of Jerry planes, for cat's sake?"
The senior officer looked sterner than ever; then the ghost of a smile quivered at the corners of his mouth.
"Certainly, Captain Dawson," he said without so much bite in his voice. "This is our hunting ground. And goodness knows too few Jerries come over our way to make us eager to share them with a couple of wild flying mad-men. So you both owe us an apology for poaching on our game grounds. But we'll take the apologies for granted. Sit down, you two. You deserve a chair at least, I fancy."
Dave came close to missing his chair, he was so surprised and relieved. He looked at the now grinning Group Captain and let his breath out slowly.
"Gosh, sir," he gulped, "I thought you meant it there for a minute."
"I still do!" the other said with a nod and a chuckle. "It wasn't fair of you, at all. According to Major Barber you had your air sport earlier this morning. Not cricket, you know, to horn in on our doings. Congratulations, nevertheless. Fact is, those blighters might have done a bit of damage if you hadn't got at them so soon. My chaps must have been taking cat naps. Well, Farmer? Glad to be back in England?"