"Naturally," Freddy Farmer replied, as though he considered such a question quite unnecessary. "After all, you know, even aircraft of the same type are different in lots of little things." "Yes, I know," Dawson grunted. "But--" And that's as far as he got. It was almost as though his question about test flying the Douglas Dauntless had been overheard, because at that moment a junior officer came up with the announcement that most of the aircraft were about to be taken up onto the flight deck so that they could be test flown before darkness set down for the night. And just twenty-five minutes later by Dave's watch he was seated in the pilot's pit of the Dauntless buckling his safety harness, and making the one hundred and one last minute preparations for flight. Seated in the pit in back of him was Freddy Farmer, making ready himself. The Carrier Carson had turned slightly into the wind and was rushing through the Southwest Pacific at full knots to give the pilots every take-off advantage possible. "Okay, Freddy?" Dave called back. "All set?" "Been waiting for hours!" the English youth shot back at him "Right-o! Any time you get the signal." Dave grunted and fixed his eyes on the flight bridge. The officer there suddenly turned and pointed his flag at Dave. Dawson gunned his engine slightly, and with the aid of a crew man on each wing he wheeled the Dauntless forward and into take-off position. The flight officer raised the flag, looked at Dave, and then brought the flag down fast. Dawson's hand on the throttle shoved it forward. The Wright Cyclone in the nose roared up in its song of power and the Dauntless moved forward down the deck. It picked up speed with every rev of its three-bladed steel prop, and Dave had it clear of the deck in no time at all. He went cutting up and off to the left to make room for the next plane taking off. "Well, pal, how's it suit you?" he called back to Freddy when there were some five thousand feet of air under the wings. "What suits me?" the English youth echoed back. "This plane, or your flying, or what? Of course, if you mean your flying, why--" "Save it, sweetheart, save it!" Dave growled. "No. This pip of a plane, and _my_ expert flying, go without saying. What I meant was, how does this Jap hunt shape up to you?" "Could be worse, I fancy," Freddy replied. "Truth to tell, though, I could do with a whole lot more details. The colonel didn't say very much, you know." "Well, for cat's sake, what else could he say?" Dawson demanded. "Somewhere in an area of about a hundred thousand square miles is supposed to be a big Jap force on its way south to make plenty of trouble. Maybe it isn't going south. The colonel doesn't know. Or anybody else, for that matter. However, the colonel can't take chances on our Guadalcanal and Tulagi attack going haywire. I mean, having this Jap force bump into them right at the beginning of the attack. See what I mean?"