“Say,� he said, “are you a bloody Britisher?�
“Surest thing you know.�
“You don’t look like one.�
“Looks are skin deep, my friend.�
The soldier accepted a proffered cigarette from Fay’s gold case, glanced at the tip, then declared as he reached for a match:
“They may be skin deep, Chappie, but you remind me of the States—New York! If you’re a Yank, why didn’t you get in the fight?â€�
Fay had no ready answer for the thrust which most certainly went home. He covered his confusion by accepting the half-burnt match, then he laughed lightly.
“Why didn’t I go to the fight?� he temporized.
“I’ve got a good reason—a very good one. I was never invited.â€�
“Ah, go on!�