"Might be something in that," I admits.
"But if I had the ring that she gave me—her token—well, you see?" goes on Waddy. "I must have it. So I must find Bruzinski."
"Yes, that's your play," I agrees. "Where did he hail from?"
"Why, from somewhere in Pennsylvania," says Waddy; "some weird little place that I never could remember the name of."
"Huh!" says I. "Quite a sizable state, you know. You couldn't ramble through it in an afternoon pagin' Joe Bruzinski."
"I suppose one couldn't," says Waddy. "But there must be some way of locating him. Couldn't I telegraph to the War Department?"
"You could," says I, "and about a year from next Yom Kippur you might get a notice that your wire had been received and placed on file. Why, they're still revisin' casualty lists from the summer of 1918. If you're in any hurry about gettin' in touch with Mr. Bruzinski——"
"Hurry!" gasps Waddy. "Why, I must find him by tonight."
"That's goin' to call for speed," says I. "I don't see how you could—Say, now! I just thought of something. We might tickle Uncle Sam in the W. R. I. B."
"Beg pardon!" says Waddy, gawpin'.