He sliced it neatly
across, then turned it half around and sliced it across again. Allison
snorted his contempt while Stan watched, a grin on his face.

"Niver be it said an O'Malley is hoggish. Will ye have a wee slab o'
pie, Mister Wilson or Mister Allison?"

"Thanks, no," Stan answered. "I'm carrying all the ballast I can handle
right now."

"I say, old chap, could that be the second or is it the third pie you've
had this afternoon?" Allison cocked an eye at O'Malley whose big mouth
was open to receive almost half of one piece of pie.

O'Malley munched the pie. "'Tis but the third, Commander, and niggardly
pies they make, too. Take the pies Mrs. O'Malley makes, now they are
pies." He grinned as he slid his hand under another quarter of pie.

At that moment an orderly appeared and handed Allison a slip of paper.
Allison read it and scribbled a notation on it, handing it back to the
orderly.

"Nothin' iver happens in this here spot," O'Malley was complaining as he
fell upon the third quarter of pie. "And this mess has no idea of a
proper pie. They have nothing but berry pie, which is little in the way
of pie."

"We'll be back on night flights up the glory trail by tomorrow night,
O'Malley," Allison said. "But right now the O.C. wants to talk to the
three of us in his office."

O'Malley gathered up the rest of the pie. Allison scowled.

"I say, Irisher, you can't go in on the O.C. with a platter of pie in
your hand."

"Sure, and that's a fact," O'Malley agreed. "Hold onto yerselves, boys,
and I'll fix it according to regulations." He shoved half the piece of
pie into his mouth.

Allison and Stan waited until he had finished. Then the three of them
headed for the O.C.'s office. Their rap at the door was answered by a
gruff voice and they entered.

The O.C. was a grizzled veteran of World War I. He looked at them with
grim satisfaction. They were three of the best men he had, flying fools,
ready to tackle any assignment.

"Sit down, gentlemen," he said gruffly.

They sat down, O'Malley slumping into his chair with his head thrust
forward. He looked lank and hungry as he sat there and anyone except
Stan and Allison would have said he hadn't had a square meal in a week.

The O.C. picked up a sheet of paper and stared at it, then he glowered
at the three fliers. He cleared his throat and tapped the sheet of
paper. His eyes were upon O'Malley. Suddenly he put the paper down.

"Something reminds me I have