give him a quizzical stare.

"The tallest, but not the highest?" he said. "What kind of rubbish is that?"

"It's a fact," Dawson said gravely. "Didn't you know you've got buildings in England higher than the Empire State?"

The English youth sighed and gave a little shrug of his shoulders.

"I always felt there was something funny about America," he grunted. "But I never knew that seeing your homeland affected you Yanks this way. We have buildings in England taller than your Empire State? What utter rubbish!"

"I didn't say taller, I said higher!" Dawson chuckled. "Take the city hall out in Denver, Colorado. Denver's a mile above sea level, but New York is just about sea level. Catch on? The Denver City Hall is over four thousand feet higher than the Empire State. Try that on your friends when you get back to England."

"Blasted likely I will!" Freddy snorted. "They'd have me locked up sure for a balmy one. But don't talk about getting back to England. Good grief! I've only just arrived in America. And speaking of coming to America, I'd certainly like to know—"

"Yeah, me too," Dave cut in, and suddenly leaned closer to the window glass. "Hello, Sweetheart!" he cried, and threw a kiss. "Have you been lonesome for me, Sweet? Well, here I am, Precious. And am I tickled pink to see you!"

As Dawson talked and went through the motions of throwing kisses, Freddy Farmer paled slightly and glanced anxious-eyed about the Clipper's lounge to see if any of the other passengers were watching. They weren't, however. They were all too busy filling their own eyes with New York. Finally Freddy turned back to Dave.

"Are you all right, Dave?" he asked. "Not air sick, or anything? Then for pity's sake, stop all this rot! Where in the world do you think you are? On the stage? And what in heaven's name are you acting out?"

"Acting nothing!" Dawson snapped. "The real thing, pal! I'm just saying hello to my girl, my sweetheart. I haven't seen her for a couple of years, you know. There she is down there. See her?"

The English youth looked eagerly out the window again, but his eagerness disappeared at once, and he groaned softly.

"As though you could see anybody from this height!" he growled. "You've just gone plain balmy with joy at being back in your own country. But I'm telling you right now that if you keep it up, I'm going to quit you and go back to England even if I have to swim it. Frankly, I think I must have been a little balmy myself to have come over here with you in the first place. See your girl waiting for you? Rot! Matter of fact, I recall your telling me that you didn't have any girl."

"I haven't," Dawson said with a grin. "Only this lady is very special. She's the sweetheart of every returning American. Always waits in the same place, holding up a torch so you can find your way in. There she is, down there. See her? Over two million Yanks threw goodbye and hello kisses at her in the last war. She was born in France, but she's been Yank ever since the day she came over. Freddy, meet my very special sweetheart. Isn't she something, though?"

Pulling the English youth closer to the window, Dave Dawson pointed a finger down at the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor. Freddy stared at it long and silently. Then presently he nodded and smiled at Dawson.

"No, I guess you're not so balmy as I thought," he said. "I see what you mean and I quite agree. She is, indeed, the sweetheart of all you Yank chaps. She stands for the most cherished thing in all of your great country: Liberty!"

"Yes," Dave said gravely. "And I hope and pray that before long what she stands for will extend around the world and to each of the Poles."

"Amen!" Freddy Farmer breathed softly. Then, as his young face grew hard and grim: "It will come, Dave. Maybe you, and I, and thousands of chaps like us, may not live to see it. But it will come, just as sure as there is a sun in the heavens by day, and stars by night. I'm not one of those heavy-thinking blokes who can spill out wonderful words by the yard, but ever since this blasted mess started I haven't once had even the tiniest feeling that Hitler and his murderers would win in the end. And now that the United States is in it, I simply feel that victory will be ours just that much sooner."

"Feel the same way," Dave murmured, and stared unseeing out the window. "But it's going to be a scrap, and a tough one. Those dirty Japs got the jump on us. And they're in high gear right now, while Uncle Sam is still shifting into first. But it won't be long before the old guy with the whiskers gets rolling. And when he does, Mr. Jap, and Adolf, and Muzzy the Fuzzy, you're going to catch it from all sides—and plenty! And—Hold everything! I sound like a Congressman dedicating a post office, or something. Let's change the subject. Gosh, Freddy, but you look funny in civilian clothes."

"Oh, do I?" the English youth flared up and flushed. "Well, let me tell you, my little man, you'd never take any prizes at a fashion show for men. You'd—"

"Get down off your ear, pal!" Dave stopped him with a chuckle. "I didn't mean that the way you took it. I mean that I've been so used to seeing you in uniform that it seems sort of cockeyed to see you in civies. They're a swell fit, and you'll knock the ladies of Broadway and Fifth Avenue for a loop. So don't get hot under the collar."

"Well, that's a little better!" Freddy growled. Then, with a sheepish grin: "To tell the truth, I feel just as strange as I must look. It's really a very nice suit of clothes, but I feel all out of place wearing it. That is—"

"I know what you mean," Dave chuckled. "Feel that way, too. As if a Wing Commander, or somebody, were liable to pop up out of nowhere and bawl the pants off me for not being dressed for a rush take-off and a scramble. Well, anyway, never a dull moment for us, hey, Freddy?"

The English youth laughed and shook his head, then ran a fingertip along the bottom of the window and furrowed his brows in a puzzled scowl.

"No, never a dull moment," he said. "But I wish that some of those moments could be explained to us now and then. I—well, I don't mean anything against America, Dave. And I'm certainly willing and anxious to go wherever I'm ordered. But—well, you've got oodles and oodles of pukka pilots over here. Why should we be sent over here to instruct? After the Singapore business, why were we recalled to England and then sent out here? Why not to some other Front? Russia, or Libya, or right where we were in the Far East?"[1]

"Instruct?" Dave echoed sharply, and gave his pal a keen look. "What do you mean, instruct? Were you told something I wasn't told? Holy tripe! If they make a darned instructor out of me, I'll wreck every ship until they realize I'm no good at that sort of thing. Instruct? Why, doggone it, I—"

"I say, don't go sailing off your topper!" Freddy cried in alarm. "Nobody told me anything. I simply said instruct, because I'm blessed if I can think of any other reason why the Air Ministry should send us over here."

"Instruct!" Dave groaned and made a face. "Gosh! Have you spoiled my homecoming by bringing that up. But, heck, Freddy! You must be all wet on that idea. Why ship us halfway around the world to teach Yank fledglings how to fly? That doesn't make sense. Why not at least send us straight to Canada?"

Freddy Farmer pursed his lips and looked thoughtful. But there was a very impish look in his eyes that Dave missed completely.

"Well, of course you're very famous," Farmer murmured. "You have quite a record for bringing down Nazi planes. British ones, too. Crashes, and rotten landings, you know. Come to think of it, perhaps it's because of those crashes."

"Crashes!" Dawson cried as his eyes flashed. "Listen, you little wing