“No.”
“Snivisky?”
“No.... Andrews, John.”
“Why the hell couldn't you say so?”
The man with the mustaches beside the stove got to his feet suddenly. An alert, smiling expression came over his face.
“Good afternoon, Captain Higginsworth,” he said cheerfully.
An oval man with a cigar slanting out of his broad mouth came into the room. When he talked the cigar wobbled in his mouth. He wore greenish kid gloves, very tight for his large hands, and his puttees shone with a dark lustre like mahogany.
The red-haired sergeant turned round and half-saluted.
“Goin' to another swell party, Captain?” he asked.
The Captain grinned.