Danenhower twisted his broad shoulders in his chair, directed a blank stare at Collins.
“Huh? If that’s another one of your puns, Mr. Meteorologist, what’s the point?”
Collins stopped laughing and looked pained.
“Don’t you see it, Dan?” he asked. “Why, that one’s rich! Celestial, equator, and you’re a navigator. Now, do you get it?”
Danenhower, determined with the rest of us to squelch Collins’ puns, looking as innocent of understanding as before, replied flatly,
“No! I’m too dumb, I guess. Where’s the point?”
“Why, Ah Sam’s a Chinaman, isn’t he?”
“If he’s not, then I’m one,” agreed Danenhower. “So far I’m with you.”
“Well, all Chinamen are sons of Heaven, aren’t they? So that makes him a Celestial. See? And you’re a navigator so you shoot the stars; they’re celestial too. And anybody’s stomach’s his equator, isn’t it? You see, it all hangs together fine. Now do you get it?” inquired Collins anxiously.
“I’m damned if I see any connection in all this rigmarole of yours with my attempts at getting better coffee,” muttered Danenhower. “Does anybody?” He looked round.