The three fliers stepped out of the mess and walked across a broad plaza. Outside the iron fence crowds hurried along a narrow street. There was a babel of races and colors and castes which the wealth of rubber and tin had drawn to Singapore from every part of the teeming East. People hurried past, some of them half-naked, jinrikisha coolies trotted along, their bodies gleaming with moisture, pulling carts in which perspiring passengers sat fanning themselves.
“’Tis no white man’s country,” O’Malley muttered as they crossed the street and shoved their way through the throng.
They entered a palm garden and Stan led the way across a lush lawn to where a heavy-set man stood talking to a laughing group of native girls. The girls seemed to be enjoying the white man’s jokes and well able to understand him. Allison scowled but O’Malley grinned.
“Nick, meet your future buddies,” Stan greeted the stranger.
Nick Munson turned around and looked at O’Malley and Allison. He was a dark-faced man with close-set eyes and a tightly cropped mustache. His eyes darted over the slacks and white shirts of the fliers. Stan made the introduction brief.
“This is Bill O’Malley and March Allison; Nick Munson.”
“Out here for the rest cure?” Nick’s lips curled just a trifle. “Jerries got a bit too hot, eh?”
O’Malley’s grin faded and his chin stuck out. “’Tis not so good I am at hearin’,” he said. “Would you be after repeatin’ that remark?”
“No offense meant,” Nick Munson answered quickly. “I hear you are both aces.”
“We have been lucky at times,” Allison said, his voice very soft.