“What? I thought you were going to write a novel or something. Going to get down to work.”
“Now that it’s so near I’m getting cold feet. I don’t know if I can work. That is, do civilian work. Write any more. You know how blamed thick competition is on a newspaper anyway. I don’t know if I could hold a job. Oh, I suppose I could, but in the army there’s no uncertainty. As long as the government lasts you draw your pay check.”
“Of all the idiots, McCall, you’re the biggest. You’ve been working too hard on your service records. What do you say to breaking away tonight? We can catch the five o’clock train and get to New York in time to look up Levin. I’ve got his address you know, and the old bird will be glad to see us.”
“All right. All right. We’ve got almost an hour yet. I’ll get dressed and call for you and we can check out together.”
McCall lit a cigarette, puffed silently for a few minutes and left.
When a voice over the telephone announced that it was General Pershing talking and wanting to know why the devil he hadn’t turned in all his Hinkle pills and iodine, and wanting to know where the devil all the spiritus frumenti had disappeared to, Dr. Levin immediately recognized that it was McCall.
“All right, general,” he said, “as soon as I get through prescribing some pills for Marshall Foch. Where are you? In the lobby? Hamilton with you? Fine. Come right up, general.”
Hamilton and McCall burst into the room two minutes later and found a changed Levin—a Levin in civilian clothes, surprisingly dignified and taller than they had remembered.
“Don’t stare,” said Levin genially. “It’s just my clothes. I never could wear a uniform. How in the world have you been?”
They shook hands warmly, exchanged greetings and then found seats on the bed. There was a cheerful exchange of cigarettes and questions and exclamations of how glad they were to be back.