However, as the three youths sat lounging about in their suite, resting before the final banquet in their honor—for they would leave for England on the morrow—Dawson stared hard at Agent Jones' good-looking face for a long minute, and could no longer hold back the question that had been in his mind ever since that luncheon in Simpson's.
"Your name isn't Jones, but Leman—right?" he practically blurted out.
Agent Jones stiffened and gave him a startled look. Then he grinned slowly, and sighed.
"A chap can't keep a thing from you, can he?" he said.
"Not when he's got a face as good-looking as his Dad's, who's an Air Vice-Marshal," Dave replied with a chuckle. "And, boy,Iwas the guy who told your Dad that you were probably imagining things, such as being followed, and your room searched, and stuff! No wonder he practically blew me down with a look!"
"Oh, so that's why you asked me if something about this chap didn't strike me, eh?" Freddy Farmer spoke up. "Good gosh! I thought you knew that for certain. Why, it was obvious, old thing. Anybody—"
"Come off it, pal!" Dawson cried threateningly, and picked up a book. "Don't give me that.Youdidn't even guess, until Jones admitted it just now."
Freddy Farmer made a face, and walked over to the door.
"Rubbish!" he snorted. "We English chaps just keep things like that to ourselves. Not nosy, likesomechaps I know. Well, I'll leave you two for a spell. A bit of shopping I must do. But I say, Jones—I mean, Leman—?"
Freddy opened the door, half turned, and grinned wickedly.
"I leave you, Leman, old thing, in honored company, you know," he chuckled. "Oh, quite!A gallant soldier all Russia must admire!"
And then Freddy Farmer leaped out into the hall as the book Dawson had been holding smacked against the inside of the door where Freddy Farmer's head had been just a moment before!
[1]Dave Dawson With the Commandos.
[1]Dave Dawson With the Commandos.
[2]Dave Dawson With The Pacific Fleet.
[2]Dave Dawson With The Pacific Fleet.
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The music was soft and soothing; like no other music ever heard on earth before. And all about was beauty far beyond the power of words to depict, or the brush of an artist. Everything was so wonderful, so perfect, and so—
But through Dawson's throbbing, pounding head slipped a tiny inkling of the stark, naked truth. There was no soft, soothing music, there was no breath-taking beauty, and nothing was wonderful, or even approaching perfection. All was Death. Horrible, lingering, painful death that comes to a man lost, and unarmed, in the steaming lush jungle of north Burma.
Yes, it was just his brain, and all of his senses playing him tricks originated by the Devil. Tricks to make him let go, and just relax—and die. But he wouldn't let go. He wouldn't die. He couldn't. There was too much to—
The whine of engines pulled his head up out of the mud and slime. He rolled half over, gritted his teeth against the pain, and peered up through the twisted canopy of jungle growth.