“You liked to be in the trenches, didn’t you?” asked Porky, stooping to lace his puttees.
“You are right I did,” said Lieutenant Parker, wrinkling his smooth young forehead. “I came over to fight, and it was just my luck to get this measly scratch on my head, and blamed if they didn’t put me here in this office doing paper work!”
“Well, you got to give your skull time to get well, haven’t you?” asked Beany. “It was cracked, wasn’t it?”
“No, just a piece scooped out of it,” said the Lieutenant in a bored tone.
The boys grinned. Lieutenant Parker was one of the best friends they had, and they had learned that nothing teased him like being quizzed about the deep, palpitating scar that creased his dark head, the truth being that he had received the wound in an encounter that had won him the coveted French war cross with the palms. Porky and Beany considered modesty in others little less than a sin. They were always so thirsty for tales of blood and glory that they could not see why any one should hesitate to tell every possible detail of any adventure. It happened, strangely enough, that they did not apply the same rule to their own conduct. To get details out of the Potter twins was, as their own father said, like drawing nails out of a green oak board, accompanied by screeches of protest. The boys had had the Lieutenant’s story, however, and they harked back to the news of the day.
“I am going on that hike,” said Porky, standing up and stamping himself comfortably into his clothes.
“So’m I,” said his brother, likewise stamping.
“Try for something else, kid,” said the Lieutenant. “You can’t get in on this. It is strictly staff.”
“Watch me!” said young Porky, the cocksure. He hurried to the door and disappeared, while Beany, a trifle slower in his dressing, roared, “Wait for me!”
A muttered response of some sort was the only satisfaction given.