She thought of something else. “Mac!” she exclaimed. “I haven’t found that third secret of radar, and I think—that is, I hope maybe I’m going on sort of a trip.”
Mac straightened up suddenly. “What? You think—” He stopped short, stared at her, and then in a changed voice said:
“Forget the third secret of radar! You’re as bad as the colored soldier in the first World War who was looking for his arm that had been blown off. When they told him the arm couldn’t be put back, he said, ‘Yas sir. I know dat. But thar’s a thirty dollar wrist watch on that arm!’”
Mac laughed at his own joke. Then he said:
“This is war. You can’t expect to get everything back when a block buster drops close to you.”
“Oh—I—”
“I’m sorry,” Mac interrupted. “I’ve got to get this gun in place before—” He caught himself, and did not finish.
“Nice crowded little world,” the girl told herself. “I’m going back to the Club and sit in a corner until something happens.”
But she didn’t—at least, not for long.
Scarcely had she downed a glass of limeade, made with real limes, when Isabelle came rushing in to seize her by the arm and drag her up toward their room.