"You do not know?" the puffy-faced one asked in surprise. "Then I will tell you at once. This is the Farbin Factory, Number Six. You are in my office, Herr Leutnant. I am the general manager. I am Herr Kurt Krumpstadt. When I saw that you were in difficulties I at once took personal charge."
Dawson grunted, and then saw that his flying suit had been removed and placed over the back of a nearby chair. He looked at it and nodded again.
"Yes, it comes back to me now!" he said in a harsh voice. "I had shot down several of the swine, and then my guns jammed. Many of them came at me, and I was forced to leave my plane."
"Ja, ja!" Herr Krumpstadt cried eagerly. "We all saw you. It was wonderful. Never have I seen such bravery as you displayed."
"It was good of you to come to my assistance," Dawson said to him in a flat voice. "Herr Kurt Krumpstadt, eh? I will remember that name. I have a friend who is high in the Party. I will tell him how quickly you gave assistance to a member of the Luftwaffe."
Herr Krumpstadt almost wept with joy at hearing those words.
"It was nothing, Herr Leutnant," he said. "It was a duty to be performed, and I performed it. But I am overwhelmed with gratitude that Herr Leutnant will be so kind as to mention my little act to his important friend."
"As soon as I meet him, which will be soon," Dawson grunted. Then, with a puzzled frown on his face, he said, "Farbin Factory Number Six? What do you make here, Herr Krumpstadt?"
The German's beam of joy instantly faded, and he looked like some fat, oily creature that is suddenly cornered, and is very much afraid. Dawson glared at him, and snapped his fingers.
"Well, are you deaf?" he barked. "Did you not hear a Luftwaffe officer's question? Or do you make nothing here? Well?"