“How long were you at the front, buddy,” asked Cohan coolly. “I guess you been to Berlin already, ain't yer?”
“I say that any man who says an American'ld let himself be captured by a stinkin' Hun, is a goddam liar,” said the man with the ill-shaven jaw, sitting down sullenly.
“Well, you'd better not say it to me,” said Cohan laughing, looking meditatively at one of his big red fists.
There had been a look of apprehension on Marie's face. She looked at Cohan's fist and shrugged her shoulders and laughed.
Another crowd had just slouched into the cafe.
“Well if that isn't wild Dan! Hello, old kid, how are you?”
“Hello, Dook!”
A small man in a coat that looked almost like an officer's coat, it was so well cut, was shaking hands effusively with Cohan. He wore a corporal's stripes and a British aviator's fatigue cap. Cohan made room for him on the bench.
“What are you doing in this hole, Dook?” The man twisted his mouth so that his neat black mustache was a slant.
“G. O. 42,” he said.