Signs of apoplexy began to show on the Wing Commander's face, but his voice was steady.
"Just deliver it to Wing Commander Farrell."
"Sure, an' I'll hand it to ye personal," O'Malley promised.
The Wing Commander bowed stiffly and turned away. The Squadron Leader wiped a smile off his lips and stared stonily at O'Malley. They marched off together.
"Now you've done it, you Irisher," Allison growled. "That's the man we have to fly under and I have to report to him within a half-hour."
"'Tis a lot too many brass hats this man's army has around and I don't like them, but I'll do this Wing Commander a favor, bein' as he seemed a bit worked up over that new Jerry gun." O'Malley looked at the pie counter but shook his head. Five pies in one afternoon might spoil his dinner and he planned to enjoy a real feed.
Allison shoved off to report to the O.C. while Stan and O'Malley went over to the phonograph and turned it on. O'Malley lay on a divan with his feet well above his head. Stan sat back in a deep chair. Before dozing off he wanted to ask the Irisher a question.
"Whatever made you pull that crack to the Wing Commander?"
"Sure, an' I was just offerin' to do me bit of winnin' the war," O'Malley said and closed his eyes.
Stan stared at him. It suddenly dawned upon him that O'Malley hadn't been fooling, he meant to deliver a Messerschmitt One-Ten to Wing Commander Farrell. He began to laugh. O'Malley opened his eyes and a grieved expression came over his face.