“But then,” her voice dropped, “they probably wouldn’t take you.”
“Why?” His shoulders squared.
“That’s just it,” was the quick reply. “You’re too fit. They’d want you for combat duty. You can’t make our outfit unless you’re too old for combat or there’s something a little wrong with you. Sparky, my fellow-pilot, has a hole in his eardrum. Combat wouldn’t take him, but Ferry did.”
“But say!” She gave him a good, square look. “Why don’t you ship back to U.S.A. and get into a uniform? Afraid to go back?”
“No, just ashamed. I ran away. My mother’s a peach. She really is.”
“Go back and sign up. Get into uniform, then breeze back home. You’ll make a hit.”
“Well, I—”
He broke short off to leap sideways, take three flying steps, then swing his arm to knock something from a stranger’s hand. Without knowing why, Mary followed on the run. It was lucky that she did, for the angry man flashed a knife. He slashed at the boy once and drew blood. His second blow, better aimed, might have been fatal had not Mary done a flying leap to knock his arm high in the air and send the knife flying away.
Instantly they were surrounded by soldiers. The youth and the man were seized. Two soldiers stepped toward Mary.
“What eez zis all about?” one asked.