they
could do was trust to luck that the Hawk would be delivered ashore
somehow. They were fortunate that they were being sent back by a motor
launch and wouldn't have to accompany the squadron across to the
Norwegian coast.

CHAPTER VIII

STAN'S PAST RISES

O'Malley and Stan climbed out of a Bentley roadster and hurried across
the street to the squadron gateway. The sentry let them pass after one
look at their soiled uniforms and a brief word.

"We'll be collectin' a bushel of medals in about a minute," O'Malley
said.

"We'll probably lose a strip of hide for not bringing the Hawk home,"
Stan replied grimly.

They entered the mess and found a large number of men about. The rousing
welcome O'Malley had forecast was lacking. A number of the boys looked
at them, then turned away. There was something in the air, a definite
tightness caused by their entering that Stan didn't like at all. The
Irishman barged cheerfully across the room and ordered a pie.

Stan sank into a chair. Without appearing to be interested, except in
the paper he had picked up, he watched the men in the room. They were
looking at him and there was hostility in the glances they shot his way.

Tossing aside the paper, he got to his feet. There was one quick way to
find out. He'd collar one of the boys and put it up to him, demanding a
straight answer. He was moving across the room, when an orderly spoke to
him. Stan swung around. The orderly was nervous and kept his eyes roving
everywhere but upon the Flight Lieutenant.

"Wing Commander Farrell wishes to speak to you, sir," he reported.

"Thanks, I'll be right over," Stan answered.

Stan guessed what had happened. Garret had tracked him down. Possibly
had seen him. Stan stepped over to O'Malley. The Irishman, his mouth
full of pie, turned around. He glanced at Stan, then shoved aside the
remainder of his pie.

"Sure, an' you been seein' a ghost." Then his big mouth clamped shut
tight. After a moment's thought, he added, "If they try givin' you a
ride for the job I did, I'm in on it."

"No, O'Malley." Stan shoved out his hand. "But if I don't see you again,
here's luck."

O'Malley looked at the hand, shook his red thatch and glared at Stan.
"By the bomb rack of a Stuka," he snarled, "I'm standing by. Let's go
get the spalpeen that's makin' the stink!"

Stan grinned in spite of himself. At that moment O'Malley would have
laid a bony fist on the jaw of an Air Marshal. He had nev