"That's right," Dave said sleepily. "Just like an American being in England. Lift, for elevator! Treacle, when it's syrup! Queue-up, when you mean standing in line. Boy, what a language! And, am I all in! Jeepers! Am I tired! Am I—"
The sudden and abrupt slackening of the train's speed woke both boys up in a flash. In fact, it woke them up in the dark, for it was late evening outside, and while they had dozed the conductor had come in and pulled down the compartment window curtains. A very pale blue light in the corridor outside was of no more good than no light at all.
Freddy groaned aloud, flexed his stiff muscles, and peered around a corner of the window curtain.
"Now what?" he murmured. "Dark as pitch outside, but I'm sure we're not even close to London yet. I say, hear those anti-aircraft guns?"
"With both ears," Dave said, and took a squint out himself.
By pressing close to the glass and trying to look in the direction of the engine, he could just barely see the long pencil-thin beams of searchlights raking the heavens far ahead. And every now and then the dark sky was stabbed by blotches of flaming red and crimson.
"The Jerries are over again, trying to hit some more women and children," he said grimly. "I hope our night boys get every darn one of them."
"They'll get some, I fancy," Freddy said quietly. "But why are we running so slow? That raid is miles and miles ahead of us. Besides, I always thought a moving target was much harder to hit. This blasted train might just as well go sixty miles as six, as it must be doing now."
"Stay after school, Pilot Officer Farmer!" Dave snorted. "And here I thought you knew all the answers! My, my!"
"Oh, come off it!" Freddy snapped. "I suppose you know the reason?"