Robert Sydney Bowen
Dave Dawson with the Flying Tigers
eBook
( Oct. 23, 2015)
With all the appearance of a man striving to solve one of the world's weightier problems, Freddy Farmer studied the Hotel Savoy menu card line by line from top to bottom. Across the table Dave Dawson sat looking at his closest pal, and grinning from ear to ear. Eventually, though, when the English-born air ace continued to take the menu apart bit by bit with his eyes, Dawson decided that enough was enough. He reached over and whisked the card out of Freddy's hand.
"Okay, little man," he chuckled. "I'll tell you what the big words mean, if you like. Now, this one, here—water. That's stuff that comes in a glass. You drink it. It also comes down out of the sky in what we call rain. It flows under bridges, and—"
"And please stop, I beg you!" Freddy snapped. "My sides ache with laughter. I couldn't possibly stand another of your hilarious remarks. And hand back that menu before I take measures that will get us both thrown out of this hotel!"
"But why hand it back?" Dawson laughed. "Holy smoke! Don't you know it by heart yet? For fifteen solid minutes you've been looking at the thing."
"Quite," the other replied gravely. "And thoroughly enjoying myself making believe. Hand it back, please, young fellow!"
"How's that?" Dave echoed, and passed the menu. "Making believe? I don't get you."
"Knowing the limits of your so-called flashes of brilliance, I can well imagine!" Freddy shot at him. "However, the fact of the matter is that here in London food is rationed. And there are many, many savory dishes that don't even appear on menus any more. So, to make myself feel good, every time I pick up a menu I simply imagine that all the pre-war dishes are there. And I have a lot of fun deciding just what I'll order. Do I make myself clear?"
Dawson sighed heavily, and shook his head.
"Too clear," he said sadly. "Lately I've been suspecting that you were going just a little bit screwy. Now I know! And me waiting here, polite like, while you fumbled around! What a guy!"
"Okay, little man," he chuckled. "I'll tell you what the big words mean, if you like. Now, this one, here—water. That's stuff that comes in a glass. You drink it. It also comes down out of the sky in what we call rain. It flows under bridges, and—"
"And please stop, I beg you!" Freddy snapped. "My sides ache with laughter. I couldn't possibly stand another of your hilarious remarks. And hand back that menu before I take measures that will get us both thrown out of this hotel!"
"But why hand it back?" Dawson laughed. "Holy smoke! Don't you know it by heart yet? For fifteen solid minutes you've been looking at the thing."
"Quite," the other replied gravely. "And thoroughly enjoying myself making believe. Hand it back, please, young fellow!"
"How's that?" Dave echoed, and passed the menu. "Making believe? I don't get you."
"Knowing the limits of your so-called flashes of brilliance, I can well imagine!" Freddy shot at him. "However, the fact of the matter is that here in London food is rationed. And there are many, many savory dishes that don't even appear on menus any more. So, to make myself feel good, every time I pick up a menu I simply imagine that all the pre-war dishes are there. And I have a lot of fun deciding just what I'll order. Do I make myself clear?"
Dawson sighed heavily, and shook his head.
"Too clear," he said sadly. "Lately I've been suspecting that you were going just a little bit screwy. Now I know! And me waiting here, polite like, while you fumbled around! What a guy!"
- Pages
- 123
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