“Well, I meant it,” maintained Jimmy stoutly, “but not for you. I meant it for any fellow, though, who isn’t square and above-board.”
“Shake.” The black-eyed youth half-raised himself in his seat and offered Jimmy his hand. His companion continued to stare dumbly, as though dazed by the suddenness of the whole thing.
“I saw you at the recruiting station the other day,” observed Roger, addressing the boy who had offered his hand. “You were just coming out of the place as I was going in.”
“I saw you, too,” nodded the other. “That used to be my business; just seeing people and things and writing ’em up afterward. I was a cub reporter on the Chronicle. Then I got the enlisting habit and here I am.”
“Every morning I read him, that paper,” announced a solemn voice. The dumb had come into speech. “You write him?” The questioning round blue eyes looked awe upon his seatmate.
“Ha, ha! That’s a good one,” shouted the ex-reporter gleefully. “Say, Oscar, what do you take me for?”
“That is no my name. It is Ignace; so. Ignace Pulinski,” was the calm correction. “I am one, a Pole.”
“Well, ‘Ignace So Pulinski, one, a Pole,’ you’ve got another think coming. I used to write about this much of the Chronicle. See.” The boyish news-gatherer indicated a space of about three inches between his thumb and first finger.
“That is no much.” Ignace relapsed into disappointed silence. Nor did he offer a word when his energetic companions proposed turning their seat so as to face Jimmy and Roger. He lumbered awkwardly to his feet and sat stolidly down again as though moved by invisible strings.
“I was lucky to get that some days.” Now seated opposite his new acquaintances the reporter resumed the subject of his recent occupation. Noting Roger’s and Jimmy’s patent amusement, their friendly vis-a-vis winked roguishly at them and continued, “Well, no more of it for me. What branch of the service did you fellows enlist in?”