"We must all make sacrifices these days," sighed the old lady.
"And perhaps you will be able to exercise your—er—er rather robust inclinations on the Germans when you meet them on the high seas," remarked the old man, who evidently thought to comfort me.
"If I can only keep him out of the brig," said this low-down friend of mine, "I think they might make a first-rate mess hand out of him," at which remark both of the girls, who up to this moment had been studying me silently, exploded into loud peals of mirth and then I knew where I had met them before—at Kitty Van Tassel's coming out party, and I distinctly recalled having spilled some punch on the prettier one's white satin slipper.
"We get out here," I said, hoarsely, choking with rage.
"But!" exclaimed the old lady, "it's the loneliest part of the road."
"However that may be," I replied with fine firmness, "I must nevertheless alight here. I have a great many things to do before I return to camp and lonely roads are well suited to my purposes. My homicidal leanings are completely over-powering me."
"Watch him closely," said the old lady to my companion, as the car came to a stop.
"He will have to," I replied grimly, as I prepared to alight.
"Perhaps Mr. Oswald will mix us a cocktail some day," said one of the sisters, leaning over the side of the car. "I have heard that he supported many bars at one time, but I never knew he really owned one."
"What," I heard the old lady exclaiming as the car pulled away, "he really isn't a bartender at all—well, fancy that!"