struck up the sergeant in his mellow voice.
The front room of the cafe was full of soldiers. Their khaki hid the worn oak benches and the edges of the square tables and the red tiles of the floor. They clustered round the tables, where glasses and bottles gleamed vaguely through the tobacco smoke. They stood in front of the bar, drinking out of bottles, laughing, scraping their feet on the floor. A stout girl with red cheeks and plump white arms moved contentedly among them, carrying away empty bottles, bringing back full ones, taking the money to a grim old woman with a grey face and eyes like bits of jet, who stared carefully at each coin, fingered it with her grey hands and dropped it reluctantly into the cash drawer. In the corner sat Sergeant Olster with a flush on his face, and the corporal who had been on the Red Sox outfield and another sergeant, a big man with black hair and a black mustache. About them clustered, with approbation and respect in their faces, Fuselli, Bill Grey and Meadville the cowboy, and Earl Williams, the blue-eyed and yellow-haired drug-clerk.
“O the Yanks are having the hell of a time, Parley voo?”
They pounded their bottles on the table in time to the song.
“It's a good job,” the top sergeant said, suddenly interrupting the song. “You needn't worry about that, fellers. I saw to it that we got a good job.... And about getting to the front, you needn't worry about that. We'll all get to the front soon enough.... Tell me—this war is going to last ten years.”
“I guess we'll all be generals by that time, eh, Sarge?” said Williams. “But, man, I wish I was back jerkin' soda water.”
“It's a great life if you don't weaken,” murmured Fuselli automatically.
“But I'm beginnin' to weaken,” said Williams. “Man, I'm homesick. I don't care who knows it. I wish I could get to the front and be done with it.”
“Say, have a heart. You need a drink,” said the top sergeant, banging his fist on the table. “Say, mamselle, mame shows, mame shows!”
“I didn't know you could talk French, Sarge,” said Fuselli.