"Cut it out, Freddy, old sock!" he growled. "None of that kind of talk from you. Not like you at all. We're not licked, kid, until Saint Peter swings wide the Pearly Gates and invites us in. Get that old chin up, pal!"
"It's up high enough, I fancy!" Freddy muttered. But with a heavy sigh, he added, "But it still makes me want to break down and weep. Should have brought that sub-machine gun along after all. We could at least take some of the beggars along with us."
"Nuts to the patrolling Nazis!" Dave snapped. "We'll let them hunt for us until they're blue in the face. We've got things to do."
The English youth half turned and stared at him hard in the gloom.
"You haven't gone a little balmy, have you?" he demanded. "What have we got to do, now? Jones is dead. He was to be our big link with the rest of the business. What have we got to do now, save keep clear of those searching for us as long as we can? And it probably won't be any too long, at that!"
"Boy, oh boy, are you sunk!" Dave said with a harsh chuckle. "Your Nazi must have clouted you one on the head that I didn't see. Sure we're getting out of here. In fact, pal, you and I are going to a spot where those shouting bums over yonder wouldn't even think of looking for us, see?"
"No, I don't see," Freddy replied. "Just what are you driving at, anyway?"
"The middle of the enemy's camp, of course!" Dave threw at him. "Sneeze away those brain cobwebs, pal. The H.Q. of von Staube and von Gault, naturally! Aren't they the two birds we came over here to collect, huh?"
Freddy Farmer sat up straight, and even in the bad light Dave could see his popping eyes.
"Good grief!" the English-born air ace choked out. "The H.Q. for von Staube and von Gault, did you say?"