After going through the same old stuff with the madame, Jimmy, with the help of Gabrielle, madame’s nineteen-year-old daughter, finally succeeded in arranging for a dinner of pomme de terre frites and an omelet.
While they were washing up a little bit, Gabrielle told Jimmy that there were three Americans sleeping in the house. The girl told him that the Americans had arrived the night before, tired out and hungry. None of them had got up yet, she told him.
Jimmy was just taking a man’s share of the potatoes when the door in front of him opened.
“Jimmy McGee! You old son of a gun! What in hell!”
“George Neil!” shouted Jimmy as he rushed at the new-comer and nearly bowled him off his feet. “How did you get in here?”
“Cushayed too long and the outfit left me back in some little joint ten kilos or so from Bar-le-Duc. Joyce and Pop Rigney are still cushayin’. Who’s your friend?” asked Neil, pointing to O. D.
“Oh, hell, I almost forgot. This is O. D. Picked him up yesterday; he’s goin’ to the outfit as a replacement. Meet my pal, George Neil, O. D.”
“Glad to know you, sergeant,” said O. D., shaking Neil’s outstretched hand.
“Forget the sergeant stuff, old man. Glad to meet anybody that Jimmy McGee knows. But what did you say that your name was?”
“It’s William G. Preston, but Jimmy—,” answered O. D.