“Then they’re bored to death,” Mac put in.
“You’re just right, they are,” the voice agreed. “And then along comes the war and they cry to Heaven, ‘I had everything fixed just the way I wanted it!’” Suddenly the voice faded.
“Listen!” said Mac.
The sky was filled with sound, the roar of planes, some high pitched, some low, fighters and bombers. The rat-tat-tat of machine guns and the pom-pom of anti-aircraft made hash of it all.
“Our night fighters are up. Good show!” exclaimed the voice. “Your radar wouldn’t do any good now. You’d get the wrong plane. Might as well settle down and enjoy a spot of tea.”
Gale was still angry at this person who, impersonating a whirlwind, had thrown her into the dugout. She was also curious. By this time the charcoal burner gave off a ruddy glow, lighting up the place a bit.
She turned half about. The light fell on a sun-tanned face that seemed in some way at the same time absurdly youthful and very old. The eyes were dark blue and deep-set. The lips were parted in a smile. But there were lines—deep cut lines in that face.
“Who—who are you?” she asked, without meaning to.
“Well, since you’ve asked me,” he laughed in a dry sort of way, “I don’t mind telling you that I’m Jimmie Nightingale, and that I was once a Flying Tiger.”
“A flying Tiger!” Her lips parted in surprise.