“That’s against international law,” Roy shouted.
“I don’t care, I’ll do it!” Pee-wee yelled. “You pile one more thing on me and I’ll–”
“Start an eggmarine campaign,” Westy said.
“That’s the first time I ever knew food to get the best of Pee-wee,” Artie Van Arlen observed.
The diminutive mascot of the Raven Patrol having valiantly protected the eggs in one extended hand gradually divested himself of the mountain under which he had labored, and by a fine strategic move took a tactical position behind these defenses with the pasteboard box of eggs upraised in heroic and threatening defiance. The war had come to an end suddenly, like the World War.
“Unconditional surrender,” Roy shouted.
“Do I get three helpings of stew for supper?” demanded the victor, by way of imposing an indemnity before he proceeded with disarmament.
“Sure, eggs won the war,” Roy conceded.
As for Blythe, he was sitting on a grocery box in No Man’s Land, laughing so hard that his sides ached. Their banter seemed a kind of tonic to him. And it was when he laughed and seemed so simple and childlike and so much one of them, that they found him so likable.