"Gee, you think of the nicest things!" he muttered. "But you could be right as rain, Freddy, and no fooling. We've got to watch our step. And how we've got to watch it! Pick up the marbles, Freddy. You've got the old brain, and no fooling! Any other ideas?"
"No, that one's enough," Freddy said grimly. "Yes, we've got to watch our step, but—well—that is—I mean, it doesn't make any difference, Dave, does it?"
"Any what?" Dave echoed, and stared at him. "You mean, should we call it off? Hey! One more crack like that, and—Oh, just the old kidder, huh?"
Freddy was chuckling as he grabbed Dave's arms.
"I'm sorry, Dave," he said. "I just couldn't pass the opening. Your face looks so funny when you suddenly get mad. Of course I didn't mean a thing, and I apologize."
"Well, that's better!" Dave growled. Then, grinning slowly: "You did have me going for a second, there. I really thought you were serious, you old tease, you! I must be slipping, not to have got wise at once. I—Uh-uh! I guess this is it, pal!"
The last was caused by the approaching figure of the pilot of the Wellington in which they were to fly. The pilot was Flight Lieutenant Wiggins, and though he wore a heavy flying kit, they knew that the D.F.C. ribbon for air gallantry was under the R.A.F. wings on his tunic. He came up, stopped, grinned, and jerked a thumb in the direction of the waiting Wellington bombers.
"Hitler just called," he announced. "Says the weather is perfect over Berlin, and will we please get it over with? So I guess we'd better get along and please the little fellow, what? You ready?"
"And raring," Dave said with a grin.
"Absolutely fed up with standing on the ground," Freddy added.