"More than I could handle, blast it all!" Freddy Farmer said, as a red flush started up his neck. "I had just made my phone call to British Intelligence at the War Office when I saw that bathroom door move. I yelled and told whoever was there to come out, or I'd fire. Silly, of course, but the blasted words just popped off my tongue."
Young Farmer paused for a moment for breath. The redness was in his face by now.
"Of course, whoever it was didn't oblige," he continued bitterly. "I heard scraping noises beyond the door, and leaped over to it gun in hand, and all that sort of cinema hero stuff. I kicked open the door just in time to see some chap's hand disappear from the bathroom window sill. I pulled the door shut to cut off the light in here, and scrambled out the window myself. Nothing happened for a bit, and then I heard two voices whispering. Couldn't make out what they said, or in what language they were saying it. I leaped in that direction and bumped square into a blasted chimney. Then I heard running feet to my right. Rather than bother calling out I just gave a snap shot in the general direction. I hit one of them, because I heard a yelp of pain. And—"
"And that was just about the time I reached the roof," Dave Dawson said as Freddy ran out of breath. "One of them fired at me. Then you called out. And then, bingo! One of them must have circled around to my side somehow, and let me have it on the head. Then what?"
"Then the very unsatisfactory ending," Freddy Farmer said gloomily. "I heard them both at the rear of the roof. I went toward there as silently, and as fast as I could. I bumped into you. While I was trying to find out if you were dead, both of the blighters went down the fire escape and lost themselves. The only thing for me to do then was to get you back through the window and in here where I could have a look at you. And that took some doing. You weigh a ton, Dave. I sincerely recommend a strict diet. Lord, but you're heavy when you're unconscious."
But Dawson wasn't listening. He was scowling at his scratched and dirty hands, and at his own uniform that was almost as badly torn as Freddy's.
"I wonder who they were?" he presently said aloud. "You didn't get a look at either of them?"
"Only that one chap's hand," Freddy replied. "The rest was just moving shadows. It was my fault for making a mess of it, Dave. I shouldn't have let that chap get out the bathroom window. How—?"
The fuzzy note of the front door buzzer stopped the rest of Freddy Farmer's sentence. Both boys looked at each other, and then got up off the bed in a hurry.
"The guys from British Intelligence!" Dawson said, and headed for the living room door. "From the time it took them to get here, this joint must be up in Scotland!"