Dave sighed and shook his head.
"There's a man for you!" he groaned. "Beauty, war, fire, famine, or flood—they don't mean a thing to him! Only his stomach. Well, you're in for a big surprise, my young fellow. There's one thing they don't allow in the R.A.F."
"What?" Freddy demanded as they walked out of their room.
"I won't tell you," Dave grunted, and headed for the elevators. "I think I'll let you find out for yourself. But no, you are a pal of mine, aren't you?"
"Oh, come off it!" Freddy growled. "I'll bite. What is this wonderful ruling I don't know about?"
Dave jabbed him in the stomach with his thumb.
"They don't let you wear a corset in the R.A.F., my friend," he said. "So watch how much you eat. Also, you might get stuck the next time some Messerschmitt pilot makes you bail out. A Spitfire's cockpit isn't any too big, you know."
"Indeed I do know," Freddy grunted, and watched the elevator slide up and come to a stop. "And that's something I've been wanting to ask you, Dave."
"Well, then, shoot," Dave said. "I'll always help a pal out with the correct answer."
Freddy didn't speak directly. He waited until they were in the elevator. It contained two men in civilian clothes and two women. Looks of frank admiration were cast their way, but Freddy pretended not to notice. He stared at Dave, and there was a look of baby innocence and curiosity in his eyes.