Upon Blister was turned the cold, hard eye of West Point. “I’ll take a tenderloin steak, sir, done medium.”
“You’ll sure find it’ll s-stick to yore ribs,” Blister said cheerfully.
Carrying a tray full of dishes, Bob went into the kitchen choking down his mirth.
“Blister’s liable to be shot at daybreak. He’s lessie-majesting the U.S. Army.”
Chung Lung shuffled to the door and peered through. Internal mirth struggled with his habitual gravity. “Gleat smoke, Blister spill cup cloffee on general.”
This fortunately turned out to be an exaggeration. Blister, in earnest conversation with himself, had merely overturned a half-filled cup on the table in the course of one of his gestures.
Mollie retired him from service.
Alone with Bob for a moment in the kitchen, June whispered to him hurriedly. “Before you an’ Dud go away I want to see you a minute.”
“Want to see me an’ Dud?” he asked.
She flashed a look of shy reproach at him. “No, not Dud—you.”