to get our hands on one of them, but so far we haven't salvaged
anything."

"How about Intelligence in France? They ought to be able to get us
something," said the Squadron Leader.

"No, if we get one it will be by pure accident," the Wing Commander
answered sourly.

O'Malley was starting on his third piece of pie. He had it in his hand
and halfway to his open mouth. He lowered it and swung around to face
the Wing Commander.

"The aisiest thing in the world, gettin' one of them guns," he said.

The Wing Commander turned toward O'Malley and looked from his face to
the big slab of pie and then back again. His manner dripped frost.
Allison got a glimpse of his insignia and kicked O'Malley on the shin.
O'Malley grinned at the Wing Commander, then took a big bite of pie. The
Wing Commander stiffened and snorted like a Merlin backfiring on a
sub-zero morning.

"Did you speak, sir?" he asked.

O'Malley was unabashed, even when the Wing Commander bent a frigid look
upon the wreck of the apple pie on the plate at his elbow.

"I said it would be aisy, gettin' one of them new guns," O'Malley
repeated.

"Perhaps you can bring one to my office not later than tomorrow night,"
the Wing Commander snapped.

"And may I ask who I'll deliver it to?" O'Malley opened his mouth and
the rest of the pie disappeared into it.

Signs of apoplexy began to show on the Wing Commander's face, but his
voice was steady.

"Just deliver it to Wing Commander Farrell."

"Sure, an' I'll hand it to ye personal," O'Malley promised.

The Wing Commander bowed stiffly and turned away. The Squadron Leader
wiped a smile off his lips and stared stonily at O'Malley. They marched
off together.

"Now you've done it, you Irisher," Allison growled. "That's the man we
have to fly under and I have to report to him within a half-hour."

"'Tis a lot too many brass hats this man's army has around and I don't
like them, but I'll do this Wing Commander a favor, bein' as he seemed a
bit worked up over that new Jerry gun." O'Malley looked at the pie
counter but shook his head. Five pies in one afternoon might spoil his
dinner and he planned to enjoy a real feed.

Allison shoved off to report to the O.C. while Stan and O'Malley went
over to the phonograph and turned it on. O'Malley lay on a divan with
his feet well above his head. Stan sat back in a deep chair. Before
dozing off he wanted to ask the Irisher a question.

"Whatever made you pull that crack