“You sure are,” said the top sergeant in his good-natured voice.
They had reached the square. They saluted stiffly as two officers brushed past them.
“What's the regulations about a feller marryin' a French girl?” broke out Fuselli suddenly.
“Thinking of getting hitched up, are you?”
“Hell, no.” Fuselli was crimson. “I just sort o' wanted to know.”
“Permission of C. O., that's all I know of.”
They had stopped in front of the grocery shop. Fuselli peered in through the window. The shop was full of soldiers lounging against the counter and the walls. In the midst of them, demurely knitting, sat Yvonne.
“Let's go and have a drink an' then come back,” said Fuselli.
They went to the cafe where Marie of the white arms presided. Fuselli paid for two hot rum punches.
“You see it's this way, Sarge,” he said confidentially, “I wrote all my folks at home I'd been made corporal, an' it'ld be a hell of a note to be let down now.”