"Good-by, Soldier Boy," she said, suddenly holding out her hand.
"My name is Graham," stammered Quin—"Sergeant Quinby Graham; Battery C, Sixth Field Artillery. And yours?"
She was fussing with the starter by this time, but she smiled up at him and shook her head.
"I? Oh, I haven't any! I'm just an irresponsible young person who is going to gets fits for having stayed out so late. But it was worth it, wasn't it—Sergeant Slim?"
And then, before he knew what had happened, the small runabout was skilfully backed out of its narrow space and a red tail-light was rapidly wagging down the avenue, leaving him standing dazed on the curbstone.
"Where in the devil have you been?" demanded a cross voice behind him, and turning he encountered Cass's snub-nose and irate eyes.
Quin's own eyes were shining and his face was flushed. With a laugh he flung his arm around his buddy's shoulder and affectionately punched his head.
"In heaven," he answered laconically.
"Funny place to leave your overcoat!" said Cass, viewing him with suspicion. "Quin Graham, have you had a drink?"
Quin hilariously declared his innocence. The draught of which he had so freely imbibed, though far more potent than any earthly brew, was one against which there are no prohibitory laws.