_Home Again_
The dimout hour for the eastern seaboard of the United States was
not many minutes away as Dawson slid the cruiser's seaplane down to
a perfect landing in the La Guardia Airport basin. As soon as he had
settled, he taxied over to the mooring ramp where attendants took over
and tied up. Then Freddy and he stepped ashore and started for the
Customs Office.
"Fine lot we've got to declare!" Freddy Farmer spoke for the first
time in quite a while. "What with our bags still aboard that Lockheed,
and down at the bottom of the Atlantic. I'll never forgive the Jerry
beggars for that dirty trick."
"Nuts to baggage!" Dawson cried cheerily, and sucked air deep into
his lungs. "We're home, pal! That's what counts. Hot dog! Get a load
of this Yankee air, Freddy. It'll do wonders for that flat chest of
yours. It--Hey! What are you grabbing my arm for?"
The English youth didn't answer. He simply grabbed Dawson's arm with
one hand, and pointed the other at the door of the airport's Customs
Office. The Yank air ace took a good look, and stopped dead in his
tracks.
"Holy smoke!" he gasped. "Boy! Do they keep tabs on the comings and
goings of you and me, pal! That's Colonel Welsh, of U. S. Intelligence.
How in thunder did he know we were landing here?"
"Perhaps that cruiser's radio," Freddy grunted. "Or maybe direct from
the Air Ministry. But he's here, right enough. And here he comes. Funny
thing, though, Dave."
"What's funny?" Dawson prompted when Freddy didn't continue.
"The feeling I've got," the English youth replied in a low tone. "I
suppose it's a bit rotten of me to feel this way, but--well, to be
perfectly frank, Dave, I don't think I'm greatly overjoyed that Colonel
Welsh is here to meet us."
"Huh? Not glad that--?" Dawson began, and stopped short with a gulp.
"Oh-oh! I get you, pal. And check and double check. I've got that same
feeling. Colonel Welsh isn't the one to take time out to greet a
couple of guys going on leave."
"Of course, he could be just making sure that we carried right on down
to Washington," Freddy Farmer murmured.
"Oh, sure, sure!" Dawson grunted. "And maybe, too, he just wants to
know how the weather was when we left England. Nope. No soap, Freddy.
Much as I like the colonel, and he _is_ one swell person, whenever
he pops into the picture you can bet your bottom dollar that there's
something cooked up for you to do."
"Yes, quite," Freddy sighed unhappily. "But it was a wonderful leave we
spent--at sea."
"Couldn't have been better, unless we'd spent it on dry land," Dave
shot out of the corner of his mouth. Then, as the Chief of U. S.
Intelligence came within earshot, he said, "Well, well, hello, sir! We
certainly didn't expect to see you."
"No, Dawson?" the senior officer chuckled as he returned their salute,
and then shook hands with them both. "Not disappointed, I hope? Got the
flash you'd been launched from that cruiser, and so I flew right up to
meet you. Well, you two have been mixing up in it again, as usual, eh?"
"Wasn't any of our doing, sir," Freddy Farmer grinned. "Sort of forced
on us, you might say. Forced on Dawson, rather. He's quite a hero.
Better than a story book hero, and all that. Why, Colonel, if it had
not been for Captain Dave Dawson, we'd--"
"Okay, okay!" Dave interrupted. "The colonel is an old friend, Freddy.
He knows us both. Skip it, pal. But, Colonel, is it all right to ask
what brings you here?"
For a split second the Intelligence Chief stiffened. His thin face even
paled slightly, and he shot a quick glance back over his shoulder.
"You didn't bring it?" he asked sharply. "You lost it, or were forced
to destroy it?"
"We have it, sir," Dawson told him quietly, and started to reach for
his tunic pocket. "We're to turn it over to you?"
"No, no, don't!" the colonel said quickly. "Not here. Just wanted to
know that you have it, so I won't have to make other plans. Well, it's
time to eat, I'd say. I've arranged with Customs, and the Military, so
come along with me. I've got my car. You're putting up for the night at
the Astor. Suite of rooms all reserved for you. So we might as well eat
there. And I want to hear of your latest venture, with all the details,
of course. But let's get going and--Well, what do you know! I haven't
yet said that I'm glad to see you. However, I certainly am--much more
than either of you may realize."
Some three hours later, Dawson leaned back in his chair in the Astor
main dining-room, and vaguely wondered if his tunic buttons were going
to stay on, or pop and go sailing across the room. It was his first
made-in-America meal in many, many months, and without any prompting
from Colonel Welsh he had started at the top of the menu card and gone
right down the list. Freddy Farmer was still eating, but then, he was
starting down the list for the second time.
"Well, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at anything you two pull
off," Colonel Welsh suddenly broke the moment or two of silence. "But
this latest is certainly tops for sheer nerve."
"And bluff," Dawson interrupted with a chuckle. "Just plain bluff,
and one hundred per cent good luck. And if you want the honest truth,
Colonel, if anybody had ever told me I'd try for a crazy long shot like
that, I'd have told them they were nuts from away back. And that's a
fact."
"Bluff, or luck, you did get away with it, Dawson," the colonel said
with a smile. "And that's the important thing. But let's get off the
war for a little while. Tell me, how does it feel to be back in the
United States, you two? Of course, Dawson, I've got a pretty good idea
how you feel about it. What about you, Farmer?"
The English youth smiled and gave a shrug.
"I fancy it's all right, sir," he said. "I've always been very fond of
America, and there's no reason why I should change now. Of course, I'd
have much rather spent our leave in England, but Dave, here, pulled one
of your American tricks on me, and I had to come along."
"He's just a hard-headed guy, sir," Dawson explained as Colonel Welsh
looked puzzled. "We tossed for it, two out of three, and I won. He
still can't get it out of his head that it wasn't crooked."
"But you see, Dave," Freddy spoke up gravely, "I've known you so long,
and so well."
"Ouch!" Dawson cried, and clapped a hand to his jaw. "And to think
he's the ungrateful cuss whose life I saved a few hours back. But you
can bet your life, Colonel, he wasn't making any of his smart cracks
_then_! You should have seen the way he gazed at me. Such dumb appeal,
and befuddlement, and helplessness in his eyes. Reminded me of a little
kitten I once found lost in a snow bank. Only difference was the kitten
didn't give me the high-hat afterward. Okay, my little man! Next time
we're stuck aboard a U-boat _you_ can get us out of it!"
"Not a chance!" Freddy said quickly. "Because if I've got anything to
say about it, and I hope I'll have, I'm never going to step inside one
of those things again."
"Amen to that!" Colonel Welsh breathed.
The trio lapsed into silence for a few minutes after that. Freddy
Farmer was content to go on eating, Colonel Welsh seemed to be mulling
over some serious thoughts, and Dave was wondering whether or not this
was the right place or time to bring up a most important subject. A
most important subject, and one that had been worrying him not a little
ever since they'd landed at the La Guardia Airport basin. In short,
the envelope addressed to Secretary of State Cordell Hull that he
still carried in his inside tunic pocket. Rather, the envelope he had
transferred from his ripped and torn tunic to the fresh and clean one
that had been sent up to the hotel suite.
Apart from Colonel Welsh asking that single question as to whether or
not they had brought the envelope, not a word had been mentioned about
it. And that fact had Dawson worried, plenty. No, not exactly worried.
It had him more bewildered and befuddled. He was sure that the
Intelligence Chief had come up to New York to accompany them down to
Washington and present them to the Secretary of State. But the senior
officer hadn't even said he was going to do that. In fact, he hadn't
spoken about anything that he was going to do. He'd simply rushed
them over here to the Astor, seen that they were comfortable, that
clean uniforms and so forth were sent up, and then had gone away to
return in an hour and take them down to dinner. And all during dinner
the conversation hadn't once touched on the sealed envelope still in
Dawson's pocket.
Was it possible that this _was_ just a friendly meeting? Was it
possible that Colonel Welsh didn't know anything about the sealed
envelope? Was it possible that the Chief of U. S. Intelligence didn't
have a darned thing cooked up for Freddy Farmer and himself? Those and
hundreds of other questions whirled and spun around in Dave's brain, as
he relaxed comfortably in his chair and let his eyes roam absently over
the well filled dining-room. He wondered plenty about those thought
questions, but there was one thing he _wanted_, not wondered. That was
to get rid of the confounded envelope. It had come much, much too close
for comfort to spelling curtains for Freddy and himself. He would
be glad when he was rid of it, and the sooner that time arrived, the
happier he would be.
"That envelope you're carrying for Secretary Hull, Dawson--" The
Colonel's words seemed suddenly to explode in his ears. "You've got it
with you? Or are you carrying it, Farmer?"
Dave jerked his head around, gulped, and nodded.
"Yes, yes, sir, I've got it," he said.
The colonel reached out his hand as though he were asking for the salt
and pepper.
"I'll take it," he said. "Give it to me. You're probably pretty sick of
carrying it around by now."
Dawson hesitated a moment, completely at sea as to just what to do. The
orders at Croydon Airport had been to deliver it in person to no one
but the Secretary of State. Of course, Colonel Welsh was different. If
he couldn't be trusted, then--
"It's all right, Dawson," the other's quiet voice broke into his
scrambled thoughts. "I realize just what you're thinking. And I don't
blame you. However, the Secretary is out of Washington for a few days,
so you can give it to me."
"Yes, sure, sir," Dawson gulped. "But--but right _here_?"
"It's all right, don't worry," the colonel said quietly.
Dawson didn't hesitate any more after that. He had been given an order
by a superior officer, and there wasn't anything he could do but obey.
So he reached inside his tunic, took out the wrinkled and slightly
dirtied envelope and handed it over.
"The mailman fell in a mud puddle, sir," he said in a half-hearted
attempt at humor. "Sorry."
Colonel Welsh looked at him and grinned. Then as both Freddy Farmer and
Dawson stared pop-eyed, he ripped open the flap of the envelope and
took a quick look inside. He smiled again, and nodded, and stuck the
envelope in his own inside tunic pocket.
"Fine, boys, fine!" he grunted. "This may mean a lot of changes in
this war. But let's forget the war. I guess you haven't heard that
story that's going the rounds about the private and the sergeant of the
guard? It's very funny."
The Chief of U. S. Intelligence made a little gesture with one hand and
hitched his chair closer to the table. Then he casually took a cigar
from his pocket, and took his own sweet time about lighting it up. And
then, just as Dawson was about to explode in confusion, he heard the
colonel's low voice carry to him through the cloud of cigar smoke.
"Act as though this one were a howl," he said. "But keep your ears
open, and listen carefully. You, Dawson! When I pick up my dessert
spoon, let your napkin fall down under the table. Go down after it, and
when you get down you'll see another envelope held between my knees.
Snake it into your napkin and sit up again. And when you get the chance
slip that envelope into your pocket. All right. Here goes with the
story. Show lots of interest, and grin and chuckle!"
With that the colonel paused a moment, and then started in on a long
drawn out story about a private and a sergeant of the guard. But Dave
only heard every other word, if that many. His brain was spinning
like a top, and a crazy, cockeyed jumble of thoughts were having a
wonderful time playing leap frog. And all the time he watched to see
when Colonel Welsh would pick up his dessert spoon. What in thunder
was all this about? What other envelope? And why was the Colonel being
so cagey about how he was to get it? Holy smoke! Hadn't he just handed
Secretary Hull's envelope across the table? Why should the colonel get
fancy and make him do tricks to get another envelope he held between
his knees? Or was it that something very heavy had dropped down on the
Intelligence Chief's head since their last meeting, and the man had
gone just a little screwy?
Dawson had no idea, and it was utterly useless even to try to guess.
His war experience had taught him to try to take things in stride, and
expect 'most anything, and 'most everything. The minute you stopped
to figure out the whys and wherefores of things that happened in this
crazy war, you were sunk. And so Dawson half listened to the long drawn
out story, grinned or chuckled in what he hoped were the right places,
and kept half an eye on Colonel Welsh's dessert spoon.
And then, suddenly, the senior officer picked it up and dipped it into
the untouched dish of ice cream that was before him. A split second
later Dawson gave his napkin a shove so that it dropped off his knees
and down under the table onto the floor.
"Excuse me a second, sir," he said, and pushed back his chair a little.
He ducked his head down, and reached for the napkin on the floor. It
was there, of course, and so was a letter sticking out from between
Colonel Welsh's knees. In one lightning-like motion Dawson scooped
up the napkin, flipped it over the extended letter, and sat up in his
chair again with the napkin back in his lap, and the envelope safely
hidden under it.
"... And so that's why Private Jones swore he'd never be a sergeant of
the guard," Colonel Welsh said, and grinned broadly as Freddy Farmer
burst into laughter.
"That's top-hole, sir!" the English youth cried. "Very, very funny,
really!"
"Sure is a pip, sir," Dawson said as he forced his own lips to grin
broadly. "I must remember that one. I sure must."
"I thought it was pretty good, myself," Colonel Welsh nodded. Then,
as he seemingly decided against the ice cream, he went on, "Well,
how about a walk around New York in the dimout? It's like high noon
compared to London and the other cities across the Pond. But maybe
you'll get a kick out of it."
"Well, it's New York," Dawson grinned, and pushed back his chair. "So
that makes it okay with me. Okay with you, Freddy?"
The English youth cast a fond parting glance at the menu, and shrugged.
"Right you are, then," he said. "Perhaps on the way back we can pop in
some place for a midnight bite, what?"
"Not a chance, pal," Dave said, and threw a quick wink at Colonel
Welsh. "Wartime rules and regulations. I read about them in England. No
male or female over fifteen years of age can have more than seven meals
per day."
"_Seven_ meals per day?" Freddy Farmer echoed, and looked puzzled.
Dawson nodded at the collection of empty dishes in front of where the
English youth had been sitting.
"And if that lay-out didn't total up to _eight_ full meals, then I
don't know my groceries," he said. "So come along, before the head
waiter hails a cop to haul you in for busting the law so soon!"
"Blast if I wouldn't stay here and wait for him," Freddy said with a
long sigh, "if I only knew that the food in your American jails was as
good as this!"