Kennard looked at him curiously for a moment before replying. The others, it seemed, had been taken aback by his rasping ultimatum. Then:
“You may. Orderly! Show Lieutenant Moran to Tent Six.”
Vaguely miserable, Moran followed the orderly to the small, floored tent which was to be his border domicile. By the time he had set his things in order his trunk was brought from the afternoon train, and he was busy until six, straightening his meager effects and washing up in the bathhouse, down at the end of the boardwalk which ran between the two rows of tents. He was tying his tie when Slim Evans poked his long, thin nose into the tent.
“About chow time,” he said cheerily.
“Come on over.”
Moran, though grateful for Slim’s interest, merely nodded, and in a moment joined him.
“By the way,” Slim said casually, “if you like I’ll go up with you tomorrow. There are some tricks about this field in this light air, and—"
“⸺, does one punk landing put me under instruction again? I’ve landed in worse fields than this one.”
Slim looked at him, and Moran averted his face to hide what he felt was a telltale flush. He had been betrayed by his anxiety to hide the fact that he was a raw amateur who had no business on the border.
“As you please,” the lanky airman said laconically, nor did he speak again until they entered the dining hall.