“Because he doesn’t belong here,” the sergeant explained patiently. “He must go back camp. Police see him here—boom—no more soldado!”
“You bad, bad hombre,” she shrieked, jumping at Panama and clawing his face and neck with her finger nails.
The sergeant had all he could do to hold Lefty from falling, and at the same time, he was forced to fight off this little native minx much to the amusement of those surrounding the trio.
“Cut it out, will ya, lady?” Panama pleaded, still a victim of the girl’s painful clawing. “I gotta take him back or we’ll all land in the brig, sure!”
“You no tak my soldado, you bad hombre!” she shrieked with renewed rage, leaping for Williams’ throat this time.
“Aw, why don’t you stop hittin’ the poor gal,” Lefty stammered, now nearly blind from the reaction of the bad liquor. “Rosie, ol’ baby, I’m your pal; if he smacks you again, jes’ tell me, tha’s all!”
Panama pushed Lefty against a post in the middle of the floor, holding him upright with one foot while he tore the girl loose from his throat, throwing her off of him with all the force he could bring to his command.
“Panny, ol’ kid,” the boy muttered, “ain’t you my pal, now—ain’t you?”
“Yeah—yeah—sure I am!” he replied, breathlessly, “but we gotta get out of this joint!”
“Wai—it a minute!” Lefty protested. “You gotta shtick around. Now lisshum—did ya ever hear me sing a song?”