“Want me to tell you?”
“Well, sure—if you can.”
“All right, buddy, it’s this way. You come back from war a big hero and the city gives you a big bust and there’s speeches and flags and popcorn for everyone and they wanted to hear how you licked hell out of them Huns. And right there’s where you fanned. You come to bat all right, but you just wouldn’t swing at the ball.” Bill’s lips curled against his teeth and his eyes flickered. “You get me?” he said.
“You mean—? No,” said John, “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean you coulda put this town right in your pocket. You coulda jumped plumb into the middle of society and married the richest girl around here and had a truckload of fortune drive right down your alley. But what did you say when they asked what you thought of the popcorn?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I’ll tell you, buddy. You said war is murder. You said you guessed mebbe the Germans wasn’t your enemy at all. You said you wouldn’t fight in another war to please God Almighty hisself. And all them,” said Bill, curling his lips in cruel mockery, “was a hell of a crack. Did you think they got all them-there brass bands and speeches and popcorn trimmings to hear you throw them Christian sentiments in their teeth? Was they intendun to make you assistant sheriff if you didn’t like to fight?” Bill’s smile was evil. “Buddy,” he said, “you fanned. You swung plumb hard and missed and fell right on your mug.”
“What did they expect?” asked John, staring, fascinated, at Bill’s sinister eyes.
“God damn, buddy, that’s a stupid question. They wanted you to tell how you made them Huns jump back over the Rhine like a buncha frogs—.”
“But I didn’t,” John said.