“What d’ya mean, a plot?”
“I can’t explain it,” the lanky Marine began. “You got to know politics and that’s somethin’ what a guy like you ain’t had no learnin’ about, see?”
“Who ain’t had no learnin’ in politics?” the other man demanded to know as his cheeks flushed with unsuppressed anger. “My old man’s uncle married a dame what was the first cousin of a guy whose mother did the washin’ for an alderman back in New York!”
“Well, that’s different,” the big fellow admitted. “Now then, do you know what strategy is?”
“Sure!” replied the sandy-haired man. “He was first baseman with the Chicago Cubs two years ago!”
“Oh, Lord, how can you make ’em so dumb!” the lanky Marine cried in disgust. “Now lissen, when you don’t know somethin’, say so and I’ll tell you! Strategy is, well—er—if you wanted to punch me in the nose an’ you let go right now, that would be suicide, ’cause I’d he prepared and break your back——”
“Who would?” yelled the little fellow in a hurt fashion.
“Aw, dry up, we’re only makin’ believe. Now, then, that would be silly for you to hit me when I wuz lookin’. A smart guy would say, ‘Alex, let me see if I can tie your hands so’s you can’t get loose.’ If I let him, he’d sock me when I was tied up and couldn’t protect meself. That, stupid, is strategy!”
The other fellow looked up at the tall man with a grave expression of doubt overshadowing his speckled face.
“Aw, you’re full of boloney!”