"Nuts to baggage!" Dawson cried cheerily, and sucked air deep into his lungs. "We're home, pal! That's what counts. Hot dog! Get a load of this Yankee air, Freddy. It'll do wonders for that flat chest of yours. It—Hey! What are you grabbing my arm for?"
The English youth didn't answer. He simply grabbed Dawson's arm with one hand, and pointed the other at the door of the airport's Customs Office. The Yank air ace took a good look, and stopped dead in his tracks.
"Holy smoke!" he gasped. "Boy! Do they keep tabs on the comings and goings of you and me, pal! That's Colonel Welsh, of U. S. Intelligence. How in thunder did he know we were landing here?"
"Perhaps that cruiser's radio," Freddy grunted. "Or maybe direct from the Air Ministry. But he's here, right enough. And here he comes. Funny thing, though, Dave."
"What's funny?" Dawson prompted when Freddy didn't continue.
"The feeling I've got," the English youth replied in a low tone. "I suppose it's a bit rotten of me to feel this way, but—well, to be perfectly frank, Dave, I don't think I'm greatly overjoyed that Colonel Welsh is here to meet us."
"Huh? Not glad that—?" Dawson began, and stopped short with a gulp. "Oh-oh! I get you, pal. And check and double check. I've got that same feeling. Colonel Welsh isn't the one to take time out to greet a couple of guys going on leave."
"Of course, he could be just making sure that we carried right on down to Washington," Freddy Farmer murmured.
"Oh, sure, sure!" Dawson grunted. "And maybe, too, he just wants to know how the weather was when we left England. Nope. No soap, Freddy. Much as I like the colonel, and he is one swell person, whenever he pops into the picture you can bet your bottom dollar that there's something cooked up for you to do."
"Yes, quite," Freddy sighed unhappily. "But it was a wonderful leave we spent—at sea."