“What’s this captain stuff. How the devil could you have a lovin’ party with a captain?... You’re drunk!”
“The hell I am!... I was in bed with the prettiest little captain you ever saw, not more’n two hours ago! Whatta ya think o’ that?”
“I think you’re drunk!” And he was slightly so.
“It’s a fact,” he insisted.
I had to laugh. The big blister preaching sermons to me about letting ladybirds get fresh and then he turns around and boasts about being in bed with a captain!
“I met her in a gin mill,” he continued, after a moment, “an’ she looked at me an’ gave me just one look—that was all this baby needed. I had her number pronto and in fifteen minutes’ time and three drinks we was on our way to heaven! She told me she came from Salisbury and I says I hail from New York—and she said she liked big men—and, well, I did the rest.”
“She?” I stopped in my undressing long enough to ask. “Where do you get that ‘she’ stuff? I thought your playmate was a captain.”
“She is!” he insisted. “She’s a captain in the Women’s Auxiliary Army Corps, and she comes from Salisbury—wherever the hell that is—somewhere in England.”
The light fell upon me and I exclaimed, “Oh—she’s a W.A.A.C. captain?”
“Say!” he bawls out. “What’d ya think I mean—an artillery captain? Ya dumb little runt!”