"You laughin' at me?" he demanded and there was a dangerous glint in his dark eyes.
"No," Stan said slowly. "I was thinking about how Wing Commander Farrell will look when you plump that gun down on his desk."
O'Malley grinned and closed his eyes again. "I'll let you go along with me," he said.
Stan studied the wild Irishman. He knew enough about O'Malley to expect anything from him. There could be no doubt but that Red Flight was in for some real circus stuff the next day. He hoped they contacted a flight of Messerschmitt One-Tens over the channel. He had no relish for the idea of trailing O'Malley into Germany and covering him while he filched a gun from one of Hitler's arsenals, but he was anxious to find out what scheme the Irisher had up his sleeve.
Allison came back and plumped into a chair. "I was lucky. The Wing Commander never suspected that I was with this wild Irishman. He thinks our hungry friend here is a ground man escaped from a nut-house."
O'Malley made no comeback. He was sound asleep, his Adam's apple riding up and down gently, his lips moving as he snored deeply. Stan said in a low voice:
"He meant it when he offered to get a gun for the O.C."
"Now, now, you Yanks are gullible, everyone knows that, old man, but you shouldn't be taken in so easy."
"You wait and see," Stan said. "We'll have to stick with him no matter what fool stunt he pulls."
"Sure, old chap," Allison agreed, but the sardonic twist of his mouth showed he thought Stan as crazy as O'Malley. He got to his feet. "Don't let him miss dinner or we'll have trouble. We aren't on the call list until tomorrow morning. I have a bid to a bit of a dinner outside tonight."