"Ditto!" Dave echoed. "My knees are sure getting to know each other, the way they're knocking together. I don't dare sit down for fear they'll freeze solid, and won't let me get up. Boy! I sure wish it was time to get going!"
"Won't be long, now," Freddy murmured with a look at the radium-figured dial of his wrist watch. "But I agree with you. I'll feel much better once we get in the air, and are getting on with the show. Remember all of Major Barber's instructions?"
Dave laughed and then whistled softly.
"Twenty years from now you could ask me, and I'd be able to recite them word for word," he said. "The Major should be a school teacher, or something. He can sure put details in your head, and make them stay there. He's a swell guy, the Major is."
"That he is!" Freddy echoed the statement. "A bit of all right. No doubt his ancestors were English."
"Listen!" Dave shot back quickly. "I said the Major was a swell guy, see? Just skip casting slurring remarks about him, see?"
"As if—!" Freddy blazed, and then saw the grin on Dave's face. "Well, his ancestors didn't come from the Belgian Congo, like one chap's I could mention!"
"Stop talking about yourself!" Dave threw at him. "Besides, we were originally talking about this raid. What do you think our chances are, Freddy?"
The English youth was silent for a moment. He walked a few steps forward, staring unseeing at the ground.
"I don't know," he said finally. "My brain refuses to try and figure the odds. Which is just as well for my nerves, I guess. I'm only hoping it comes off as easily as the planning makes it appear. One thing, though. Selecting me to go along with you is just about the finest honor I ever received."