The Ely miner., 1943-09-30

ter how late you went to bed. Then
you can't go back to sleep.
look so pretty in your uniform that
they won't let you pull the old blue
serge out of mothballs.
It isn't bad all the way through,
though.
For instance, ! walked out of the
hotel the other day and ran into
one of the boys from my own bar
racks, in New York on three-day
pass. We exchanged the prescribed
comments on the smallness of the
world and I saw a sparkling oppor-
tunity to spread a thick layer of
hokum. I could make the lad think
I was one of these filthy-rich pri-
Yates you so often read about in
the papers.
The kind that 60 about flashing
$1,000 bills before unsuspecting
headwaiters.
won't you have lunch with me?"
I asked. Then I added, quite casu-
ally, I'm stopping here at the
Astor."
His eyes popped family, but a
good soldier never passes up free
meal. We went back into the hotel
and into the terrifyingly smart din
ing room. I smiled condescendingly
at the headwaiter, to make him
think was cash customer at the
hotel, and he led us to a table.
''I'm afraid you'll find the food
here depressingly dull I told my
comrade-in-arms 'No ortolans or
hummingbird tongues. They seem
to go in for plain but wholesome
foods. Won't you try the breast
Of guinea hen, with sip of Onion
Soup Reine?"
ST don't care if I do" he said.
ST amt particularly particular
about what I eat"
"My nerves are all shot," I re-
marked airily. New York tires
me dreadfully. I have to run about
nolens volens-that's Latin for willy
nilly-from one night club to an
other, brushing up on old friend
ships. And I'm getting so tired of
shows and cocktail partiesl Won't
you have a slug of hootch with me?
I've got to have one."
He gulped nervously and replied
that he didn't care if he did. no
ticed with satisfaction that he was
taking in all the propaganda about
night clubs, shows, and cocktail par
ties.
"I'm a man of simple tastes my
SELF" I said, lifting both eyebrows
to give my face that bored express
sion. 'I can't stand these silly mixed
drinks. I like my liquor straight.
I'm partial to Scotch"
"Fm a rye man myself" he said.
The waiter, who had been standing
by with a growingly disgusted face,
shrugged his shoulders and fetched
two tiny fagons of the Old Enemy.
His face sank little at the sight,
but manged to keep up sophisti-
Gated front. took sip of soda and
lifted the glass. "Well, here's look
ing at you and going down me-"
"Corn on the corn" he said, winc-
ing at the toast. downed the yell
low poison and so did he. I bungled
the job, though, and had to use two
gulps. Ooooh! I shuddered vio-
lently, but he didn't see. He had
turned his face and was coughing
with real fervor.
We managed to get through the
meal all right, weakened though we
were by the firewater. I continued
to impress him. The only obstacle
I hit was his reminder that would
be spending Thanksgiving on kitchen
police.
We parted when I told him
couldn't get out of reception I
had to attend at 2:30. I had suffi-
ciently impressed him and, with the
aid of Providence, might be able
to borrow money from him occa-
sionally back at Fort Bragg.
The meal cost me nothing, but
the fifty-cent tip was staggering. If
worst should come to worst, I could
always hook my watch. If had a
watch.
Ia
Thanksgiving Day-with all its
roast Vermont turkey, its pies and