“And varra nice, too!” ventured Andrew Drummond.
“None of your sauce, Scottie,” came the reply, promptly, but without rancour.
“You’re married, ma’m, I see,” said Al Thompson deferentially with a glance at her left hand.
“Widow,” said the girl briefly. “Since the Somme, two years ago.”
“That’s too bad,” observed Al, painfully conscious of the inadequacy of the remark.
“Most of us has lost some one. In the house where my sister’s in service there’s three gone—all officers. I’m not one to ask for sympathy when there’s others needs it more,” replied this sturdy little city sparrow. “Carry on—that’s my motto! He was in the Field Artillery: just bin promoted bombardier. Got any meat coupons?”
They shook their heads. As regularly rationed soldiers they were free from such statutory fetters.
“Better have bacon and eggs,” announced Hebe. “They’re not rationed.” She dealt them each a slice of War bread. Butter they found was unobtainable; so was sugar. Andrew suggested that the party should solace itself with beer; but his companions, like most Americans, whether of the dry habit or the wet, preferred to drink water with their actual meals. The fact that the water when served was tepid received due comment from Joe McCarthy.
“That’s the way folks always tak’ it here,” explained Andrew. “I dinna often drink it mysel’, I canna see what other kind o’ water ye could expect.”