"Okay, okay!" Dave Dawson growled, and rolled over to a more comfortable position in the hotel bed. "It's dear old England. A wonderful country, a great place. And you're tickled silly to be here. Okay, I agree with every word you say. God save the King, and there'll always be an England. Now, will you let a guy get some sleep?"

"But you don't understand what it means to me, Dave." Freddy Farmer spoke through the darkness from the other bed. "This is my native land, my home, and I've—"

"Gone completely screwy!" Dawson snapped. "Sweet tripe! You were here only two days ago. Two days you've been away, and you're sounding off as though you'd been away for a million years. Just a two day jaunt over to France, and the guy starts flag waving. My pal, much as I like you, you are a pain in seventeen different places at the same time. Go to sleep, you bow-legged Commando!"[1]

"Just what I've said quite often," Freddy said placidly. "It takes an Englishman to really appreciate his homeland. Two years or two days, what does it matter? The joy that is his upon arriving back home is always the same. Do you see what I mean, Dave?"

Dawson groaned, sat up in bed, and switched on the table lamp. But as he did so he took a quick automatic glance at the room windows to make sure that the blackout curtains were drawn and securely fastened. Then he hunched around in bed and glared at his closest and dearest friend in the world.

"The day will come!" he snarled. "So help me, the day will come!"

The English-born air ace blinked, and looked blank.

"Eh?" he echoed. "What say, Dave?"

"Just that the day will come, so help me!" Dawson answered, and leveled a stiff forefinger. "The day will come when I'll forget I like you, and will up and bust you right on your snoot. For cat's sake, Freddy! You're worse than a woman, from what I hear of them. Don't you ever shut up?"

Freddy Farmer propped a hand under his head and grinned.

"But I don't feel sleepy," he said. "I want to talk. Don't you? Now, really, you're not sleepy, are you, Dave? After all, we haven't had much time to talk since we got back from that Commando show in Occupied France. We've—I say! What's the matter, old fellow?"

The last was because Dawson's hands had come up in an attitude of prayer, and his lips were moving soundlessly.

"Just calling for strength," he told his pal. "For a second there I almost wished that you had been left behind, you doggone phonograph record. Look, pal, see these lines on my face? And these pouches under my eyes? Well, that's not from age. Just because I'm tired."

Freddy Farmer stared hard, and his face flooded with sympathy. However, there was a very wicked gleam in his eyes.

"I say, Dave, old thing!" he murmured. "I'm frightfully sorry, no end. I thought—well, as you Yanks say, that you could take it. I didn't dream that little Commando show in Occupied France would do you in so much. Put out the light, you poor fellow, and try to get some sleep. Want me to send down to the chemist shop for something to make you sleep? Drugstore, you call it in the States, don't you?"

Dawson carefully settled himself in a sitting position, and then, clasping his hands in his lap, he started to count.

"One—two—three—four—five—!"

"I say, Dave, what's up?" Freddy Farmer cried in alarm.

"When I get to ten, you'll find out!" Dawson barked. Then, with a heavy sigh, "Okay, okay, you want to talk, so what chance have I got? I couldn't sleep, now, if I were hit by a truck. But just one thing, Freddy Farmer: keep this night in your memory, always!"

"Why, Dave?"

"Just never mind, sweetheart!" Dave grunted. "Skip it for the present. As you were saying?"

"Oh, so you want to talk, old thing?" the English youth echoed, and grinned maliciously. "Splendid! It is nice to be back in England, isn't it?"

"I could answer that, but my folks brought me up to act like a gentleman!" Dawson snapped. "What else, Edison?"

"Edison?"

"The inventor of the phonograph," Dawson said. "Turn the record and put in a new needle!"

"Well, I was wondering—" the English youth murmured, as he let the wisecrack sail right over his head—"I was wondering what next, Dave?"

"More loss of sleep," Dawson flung at him, "because of more useless talk at three in the morning from a certain nit-wit. And, I do mean you!"

"And the same to you, sir!" Freddy came right back at him, and made a face. "But I am still wondering what's going to happen next?"

"Who cares, so long at it's action against those dirty Nazis," Dawson said.

"Quite!" the English youth murmured. "But you're a very tired little fellow. Go on back to sleep. I'll tell you about it in the morning. That'll be time enough. Good night, Dave. Or rather, good morning."

Freddy reached a hand toward the table lamp between the twin beds, but Dave grabbed hold of it in time.

"Nix!" he said. "That look on your face makes me suspicious, young fellow. You've got something important on your mind. I can tell. Come on, now. Let's have it, pal."

"Oh, I fancy it will keep until morning," Freddy Farmer said with a wicked grin. "Go get your beauty sleep. After all, it arrived after you had gone to sleep. So what's the difference?"

By now Dawson was wide awake, and as he swung his legs out from under the covers there was a dangerous glint in his eyes.

"Stop right there, pal!" he grunted, and leveled a finger. "What came after I'd gone to sleep? Do you tell me, or do I toss you through that window, blackout curtains and all?"

"Oh no you don't!" the English youth cried as he leaped out of bed on the far side. "Calm down, young fellow, and I'll tell you. Stay put, or not a word will I tell you!"

Dawson relaxed and sank back on his bed.

"Okay, but it had better be good!" he growled through a yawn. "Okay, what's the big mystery?"

"It was a phone call," Freddy Farmer said with a jerk of his head toward the instrument on the wall. "From the Air Ministry. We are to report at Room Twelve Hundred at eight o'clock in the morning."

"Hey, they can't do that to us!" Dave cried. "We're supposed to be on leave. We—Did the chap at the other end say what it was all about?"

Freddy Farmer shook his head and slid back into bed.

"Not a word," he said. "Naturally, I asked questions. But that's all the good it did me. The chap was very brusque. Report at eight, and that's that."

Dawson sighed and gave a sad shake of his head.

"Not that I don't want to do my part in trimming the Nazis," he said, "but, my gosh, I could do with at least a couple of days leave. Why, I haven't even had time to see a movie in months. Oh, well, maybe it's for something unimportant."

"I doubt it," Freddy Farmer said emphatically. "I guess you've forgotten Room Twelve Hundred at the Air Ministry, Dave."

"Huh?" Dawson echoed, jerking his head up. "Room—? Holy smoke! That's Royal Air Force Intelligence! But it doesn't make sense, Freddy. We're not in the R.A.F. now. We're with the Yank forces!"

"Quite!" the English-born air ace grunted. "But I fancy Air Ministry wouldn't have phoned that order if they hadn't first obtained permission of Yank G.H.Q. But what difference does it make, anyway, if it's Yank G.H.Q. or the Air Ministry? Either of them could detail a job to us. But the important thing to me is, what is it this time?"

"The fellow on the phone didn't give you any kind of a hint?" Dawson persisted.

The English youth shook his head.

"Not the faintest," he replied. "We'll just have to wait and find out, I'm afraid."

Dawson groaned and glanced at the clock on the night table. The hands showed him it was exactly sixteen minutes to four. Just four hours and sixteen minutes to wait!

"Nuts!" he sighed, and slid down under the covers. "I wish I hadn't made you tell me, pal. Now there's a fat chance that I'll get any more sleep! You don't happen to have a deck of cards around, do you? We could kill time with some two-handed rummy."

"Sorry," Freddy Farmer said. "Not a card. But I'll sing to you, if you like."

"Never!" Dawson cried out in mock protest. "Spare me that, please, sir. Besides, I don't want to have the authorities piling in here to arrest you for impersonating the air raid sirens. Nix! I'll permit you to sing over my dead body. I'll—Oh, darn it! What do you suppose they've got cooked up for us in Room Twelve Hundred at the Air Ministry?"

"How I wish I knew!" Freddy Farmer breathed solemnly. "But if past experience means anything, there's one thing we can bank on, no doubt."

"Which would be?" Dawson grunted.

"A messy job of some kind," the English youth opined. "They seem to save that sort of thing especially for us."

"Check and double check!" Dawson murmured. "You've got something there, pal. And how!"

And with that both boys lapsed into silence, and stared thoughtful and scowlingly up at the hotel room ceiling.