"Nothin' iver happens in this here spot," O'Malley was complaining as he fell upon the third quarter of pie. "And this mess has no idea of a proper pie. They have nothing but berry pie, which is little in the way of pie."
"We'll be back on night flights up the glory trail by tomorrow night, O'Malley," Allison said. "But right now the O.C. wants to talk to the three of us in his office."
O'Malley gathered up the rest of the pie. Allison scowled.
"I say, Irisher, you can't go in on the O.C. with a platter of pie in your hand."
"Sure, and that's a fact," O'Malley agreed. "Hold onto yerselves, boys, and I'll fix it according to regulations." He shoved half the piece of pie into his mouth.
Allison and Stan waited until he had finished. Then the three of them headed for the O.C.'s office. Their rap at the door was answered by a gruff voice and they entered.
The O.C. was a grizzled veteran of World War I. He looked at them with grim satisfaction. They were three of the best men he had, flying fools, ready to tackle any assignment.
"Sit down, gentlemen," he said gruffly.
They sat down, O'Malley slumping into his chair with his head thrust forward. He looked lank and hungry as he sat there and anyone except Stan and Allison would have said he hadn't had a square meal in a week.
The O.C. picked up a sheet of paper and stared at it, then he glowered at the three fliers. He cleared his throat and tapped the sheet of paper. His eyes were upon O'Malley. Suddenly he put the paper down.