"Sure," Dave said.
"Well, what is it?"
"An official secret," Dave said in a hoarse whisper. "I'd tell you, but how do I know there isn't a Nazi agent under the seat?"
"You'll be under the seat, if you don't cut it out!" Freddy whispered back at him. "Now, what's the great reason?"
"Okay, if you've got to know," Dave said in a patient, resigned voice. "This is how it is, my little man. German planes carry bombs, and when they get over here they drop those bombs, see? Well, one might drop on the track way ahead of a train going sixty miles an hour, see? Well, maybe the engineer couldn't stop in time, and the train would pile up. But if the train crawls along until the all-clear is sounded, then the engineer can stop it on a dime if he should go around a curve and suddenly see a nice big bomb crater where the tracks should be. Now, right or wrong?"
Freddy made clucking sounds with his tongue in the darkness.
"Why, I believe the chap is right," he said, as though talking to himself. "Yes, I fancy he has a little bit of something useful between those big ears of his. You are right, of course, Dave."
"Ever see me when I was wrong?" Dave taunted. Then quickly: "No, let's not bring that up! Hey! Those planes are headed this way!"
Dave could have saved his breath on the last. As though a huge invisible door in the sky had been opened, the thunder of the guns tripled in sound. The compartment was suddenly bathed in the pale reflection of a battery of searchlight beams that suddenly sprang into action less than fifty yards from the tracks. The train had come to a full halt now, with its headlight turned off. A moment later came the familiar drone of night-bombing Heinkels and Benz-Daimler powered Focke-Wulf 187s above the roar of the batteries of anti-aircraft guns.
For a moment Dave and Freddy watched the approach of the raiding planes. Then common sense got the best of curiosity. They stretched out on the compartment floor beside each other to protect themselves as much as possible in case any of those eggs of death should happen to land near the train. Perhaps they looked funny huddling down on the compartment floor in their best Sunday-go-to-meeting uniforms. However, in England it is not a sign of being afraid or of cowardice to fling yourself flat when the bombers come over. It is a sign of good sense. Perhaps it is true that the bomb or bullet that gets you has your name on it, and you can't escape it no matter where you are. At the same time, though, only a fool or a madman deliberately dares a bomb to do him harm.