"Excuse me a second, sir," he said, and pushed back his chair a little.
He ducked his head down, and reached for the napkin on the floor. It was there, of course, and so was a letter sticking out from between Colonel Welsh's knees. In one lightning-like motion Dawson scooped up the napkin, flipped it over the extended letter, and sat up in his chair again with the napkin back in his lap, and the envelope safely hidden under it.
"... And so that's why Private Jones swore he'd never be a sergeant of the guard," Colonel Welsh said, and grinned broadly as Freddy Farmer burst into laughter.
"That's top-hole, sir!" the English youth cried. "Very, very funny, really!"
"Sure is a pip, sir," Dawson said as he forced his own lips to grin broadly. "I must remember that one. I sure must."
"I thought it was pretty good, myself," Colonel Welsh nodded. Then, as he seemingly decided against the ice cream, he went on, "Well, how about a walk around New York in the dimout? It's like high noon compared to London and the other cities across the Pond. But maybe you'll get a kick out of it."
"Well, it's New York," Dawson grinned, and pushed back his chair. "So that makes it okay with me. Okay with you, Freddy?"
The English youth cast a fond parting glance at the menu, and shrugged.
"Right you are, then," he said. "Perhaps on the way back we can pop in some place for a midnight bite, what?"
"Not a chance, pal," Dave said, and threw a quick wink at Colonel Welsh. "Wartime rules and regulations. I read about them in England. No male or female over fifteen years of age can have more than seven meals per day."