“Not at all, Jack; glad to give you a lift,” shouted the driver, and he was off.
“That’s a regular guy,” said Jimmy. “You take any fellow that’s been through what we have and he’s damn glad to help a guy out. He knows himself what it is to be hungry and tired. This old war’s teachin’ a few guys that there’s others in the world besides themselves. Guess it’s time to monjay. Take a look for the café here. Hold it here a minute. I’ll ask this M. P. guy where a man can get a bite.” Jimmy headed for an M. P.
“Say, Jack, where’s there a place to monjay ’round here?” he asked.
“Couldn’t tell you, buddy. Only been here a week,” answered the M. P.
“A week,” repeated Jimmy. “What do you have to do, spend a winter in a place to find out where the grub is? Have you seen artillery go by here lately?”
“Nope—nothin’ lately—in three days or so.”
“What was it, seventy-fives or one hundred and fifty-fives—big or little? What?”
“Don’t remember,” answered the M. P. as he motioned a car to go by.
“Hell afire, O. D., I knew it. Those M. P.’s don’t even know there’s a guerre goin’ on,” said Jimmy, with disgust. “Follow me, I’ll find somethin’ toot sweet,” and Jimmy McGee started toward a house about one hundred feet away.