Wilbur Cowan considered.
"Well, I had a pretty bad cold in the Argonne."
"I want to know!" said Sharon, much concerned. He pranced heavy-footedly before the other, thumping his chest. "Well, I bet you threw it off! A hard cold ain't any joke. But look here, come on for a ride!"
They entered the car and Sharon drove. But he continued to bubble with questions, to turn his head and gesture with one hand or the other. The passenger applied imaginary brakes as they missed a motor truck.
"Better let me take that," he suggested, and they changed seats.
"Out to the Home Farm," directed Sharon. "You ain't altered a mite," he went on. "Little more peaked, mebbe—kind of more mature or judgmatical or whatever you call it. Well, go on—tell about the war."
But there proved to be little to tell, and Sharon gradually wearied from the effort of evoking this little. Yes, there had been fights. Big ones, lots of noise, you bet! The food was all right. The Germans were good fighters. No; he had not been wounded; yes, that was strange. The French were good fighters. The British were good fighters. They were all good fighters.
"But didn't you have any close mix-ups at all?" persisted Sharon.
"Oh, now and then; sometimes you couldn't get out of it."
"Well, my shining stars! Can't you tell a fellow?"