“French, hell!” said the top sergeant. “Williams is the boy can talk French.”
“Voulay vous couchay aveck moy.... That's all I know.”
Everybody laughed.
“Hey, mamzelle,” cried the top sergeant. “Voulay vous couchay aveck moy? We We, champagne.” Everybody laughed, uproariously.
The girl slapped his head good-naturedly.
At that moment a man stamped noisily into the cafe, a tall broad-shouldered man in a loose English tunic, who had a swinging swagger that made the glasses ring on all the tables. He was humming under his breath and there was a grin on his broad red face. He went up to the girl and pretended to kiss her, and she laughed and talked familiarly with him in French.
“There's wild Dan Cohan,” said the dark-haired sergeant. “Say, Dan, Dan.”
“Here, yer honor.”
“Come over and have a drink. We're going to have some fizzy.”
“Never known to refuse.”