“But the dispensary doesn’t open until nine o’clock,” she said indifferently, though secretly amused by the man’s lame excuse. “What’s your hurry?” A look of pain crossed the man’s face as he struggled for words that would convince the girl. “Why—er—I got a busy day ahead of me,” he lied gracefully. “And unless you remove the bandage, I can’t use my hand so I——” “Never mind explaining the rest,” Elinor interrupted. “I guess I understand.” She led the way to a small white table near the window as Panama trailed after her. Following her lead, he sat down at the opposite side of the table, never for a moment taking his anxious eyes away from her loveliness that so enthralled him. As she bent forward to undo the wrapping, he was tempted to kiss her beautiful hair but his better judgment prevailed in time just as she looked up into his eyes, speaking in a mockingly accusing manner: “Lefty Phelps has been out of the hospital for three days and you are still coming here for treatment! Your hand has been well for over a week.” Panama grinned in a guilty fashion and dropped his eyes. Then, in an effort to vindicate himself, he pointed to a small, red spot between his thumb and index finger, still slightly bruised. “There’s a little place here,” he explained as a matter of defense. “It still hurts!” Elinor smiled, and without making comment, reached for a small piece of absorbent cotton, dipped it with ointment and proceeded to place it on the sore spot. “I suppose they’ll be transferring Lefty out of the flying corps,” she said, managing to keep her eyes upon her work so that Panama would not detect any personal gleam of anxiety which might betray her secret interest in the former football player, an interest that had grown to be something more than just casual. The sergeant’s other hand mechanically reached for his blouse pocket and rested there. “Oh, I don’t know about that?” he replied, endeavoring to assume a careless attitude, though his answer didn’t fool the girl in the least. She looked up at him quickly, her woman’s intuition alive to the fact that he was holding something back from her. “Why, what do you mean?” she asked. “Nothin’!” She tried to smile her prettiest and, with an alluring air of coquetry, hoped to learn the secret Panama was keeping from her. “You do mean something,” she persisted. “Panama, you’re keeping something from me—you know you are!” “I’m not!” he fabricated, secretly amused. “What would I be keeping from you?” “You said that they might not transfer Lefty out of the service!” Panama was enjoying, for the first time, the thrill of having this girl, whom he idolized, begging him to unfold to her a secret which he was keeping all to himself. “Well, mebbe I did, but what does that mean? I ain’t the Chief of Staff to be saying what will or won’t happen to some dub that can’t move a plane from the ground!”