“I wish you’d examine McCall’s cranium,” said Hamilton, blowing a smoke wreath toward the ceiling, as he lay back on the bed. “He’s talking about entering the regular army, pardon me, the regular establishment.”
“Oh, I was just thinking about it. Nothing certain,” said McCall.
“One would think,” remarked Dr. Levin, rubbing a thoughtful hand over his chin. “One would think that your experiences in the World War would be a sufficient antidote. But—”
His brows wrinkled. “How can you? I mean physically. You couldn’t pass the examination.”
“I thought they’d let me in because I’d been wounded in the war. Give me a staff job or something. I’ve got a pretty good record, you know. Got the Croix de Guerre and the Distinguished Service Cross. But—oh, well, I didn’t really intend to apply for a commission in the regular army. Just putting off making a decision as to what I’m going to do when I get out. If you apply, they keep you in longer.”
Dr. Levin chucked a pillow at McCall, and Hamilton, following the cue, rumpled his hair.
“What are we going to do with this gloom?” Dr. Levin appealed. “Let’s take him out and show him the city.”
McCall laughed. “I’m not gloomy. Just thirsty. Let’s go!”
“Just a minute,” laughed Dr. Levin. “I do things methodically. Let’s draw up an itinerary. Where are we going?”
“What’s the difference where we go?” suggested McCall. “The main thing is to go. We’ll charter a taxi and make the rounds.”