“Oui ... trey-bien,” declared McGee, and he let out two notches in his belt to prove that he was well fed.
The old man dragged up a chair and made believe he was going to roll a cigarette. Jimmy saw the act and got wise.
“Here, have a regular cigarette,” he said, extending a pack of Piedmonts to the patron.
“Merci. Merci, monsieur.”
“Take ’em all. I can get more. Suppose we ain’t too near the front yet for the Y. M. C. A.”
“Ah, monsieur, vous êtes très?-gentil, très bon.” (Ah, sir, you are very nice, very kind.)
“Not at all.”
Once the cigarette was lighted, the man of the house waddled over to the cupboard and extracted a long dark bottle. He came back to the table, measured out four glasses of brownish-looking stuff and handed them around. He touched his own against every one else’s and shouted:
“Vive l’Amérique!”
“Vive la France!” shouted Jimmy.