One evening she dined in the Y. W. C. A. hostess house at Coblenz with two of these boys. Left alone, she would have dined by herself. She was tired, very tired. There comes the hour when a woman worker wearies a bit at sight of a ceaseless file of chattering and khaki-clad men. And so when she seated herself in one of the little dining booths of the "Y. W." restaurant, it was with a silent prayer that she might be left alone—just that evening. Her prayer was not granted. A big doughboy came and sat down beside her, another across the narrow table from her. The second vouched for the first.
"You will like Hank," said he. "He's one of the livest in the whole First Division. He's from Waco, Texas, and say, he's the best gambler in the whole army."
At which Hank grinned and produced a huge wad of ten and twenty and fifty and hundred franc notes from his hip pocket.
"Don't you let him string you, Miss Tippitoes," said he, "but if ever you get where you need a little spare change you know where your Uncle Hank is to be found."
He called her "Miss Tippitoes" because he could not remember her real name even if ever it had been given to him. But he had danced with her and watched her dance, and marveled. And well might he have marveled. For if I were to give you Miss Tippitoes' real name you might know it as the name of the most graceful and popular dancer in a fashionable suburb of Chicago.
Hank edged closer to her. It was in the crowded restaurant, so he took off his coat and unbuttoned his blouse, as well as the upper buttons of his undershirt. And Tippitoes stood for it—it was a part of her job and she knew it—while Hank leaned closer to her and confided some of his troubles—they were troubles common to so many of the doughboys.
"It's a dump that we're billeted in, miss," said he, "and it's all the fault of our colonel—him and that Red Cross girl he's stuck on. Just because he's got a mash on her he had the regiment moved in to G——. But I've got his number. And as for her—why, that girl comes from my home town. I've got hers, too."
Tippitoes' eyes blazed. She could have lost her temper so easily. It is not difficult when one is fagged and nerves begin to get on edge, but she kept her patience.
"Don't be foolish, young man," said she, "otherwise somebody will have to take the trouble to tell you that a colonel does not locate his regiment. He has no more to say about where you shall all be billeted than you yourselves. And as for the Red Cross girl, she is in the same position. Moreover, your remark is not worthy of an American soldier—and a gentleman."
There was something in the way she said these things—no type may ever put in upon paper—that, in the language of the motion-picture world, "registered." In a little time Hank was ashamed of himself, and with the innate generosity of his big, uncouth heart, apologized—like a gentleman and an American soldier.