He looked at it curiously with a faint smile. “A-mer-i-cain Pencil Compagnie” he read with his queer French accent. Then he pressed in the end, and a little point of lead popped out. He laughed—he sighed. He handed it back. There were tears in his eyes.
“Ah, m’sieur,” he said, “do you remember that day in Paris, last July?” There was a silence. Then—“Why, it seems like ten years since then!”
So, in those two months, War the Creator had done its work. Coco was a man.
