The Belgian blue poplin dress made her bright eyes seem all the bluer. Her heart was beating proudly when she arranged her cap behind the auburn hair rolled softly into a pompadour. She had a feeling of real pride in those red crosses on her pocket and the white band of her cap. Some day she meant to earn service bars, too. Mrs. Evans wore a chevron and three bars, representing seven years of service. Although the girls did not wear their uniforms at the Snack Bar, Kitty donned the official apron she was allowed to wear there on the first evening after finishing her course. Though she had done much volunteer work at the bar she felt somewhat elated tonight over being a full-fledged Canteen worker. She was in an expansive mood and said as she and Judy were slicing bread for sandwiches, “Let’s make ’em extra large, with plenty of stuffing just to celebrate our graduation.” “You might make that special dressing you were telling me about,” Judy suggested. “May I, Mrs. Evans?” Kitty asked. “Of course. The boys always enjoy something different.” Kitty had learned to make a tart creole sauce for sandwich filling from their cook in New Orleans, so she prepared a bowlful. By the time the boys began to drift into the hall the air was fragrant with coffee and chocolate, and trays of sandwiches were ready. Brad, knowing it was Kitty’s initiation night, was one of the first bluejackets to plant his elbows on the counter and demand a sandwich. “And a cupa cawfee, too, wench, and be snappy about it!” he said with mock gruffness. She made a face at him as she turned to get the coffee. After one bite of the sandwich Brad’s eyes bulged. “Oh boy! This tastes like something from Toni’s swanky joint in New Orleans.” Kitty laughed in delight. “Our old cook used to work at Toni’s. She gave me lots of his secrets.” Jimmy Barnes sat beside Brad taking huge bites of a sandwich. He enthusiastically added his praise to Brad’s. “Boy, but this is really seasoned up like home cooking.” “About the best seasoning they give us up at the hospital is the shrimp creole.” “And they only have that about twice a month,” added Jimmy in disgust. Kitty’s curiosity stirred. Maybe this was her chance to learn something about the staff in the galley. “Do you know the cooks very well?” she asked. “Only a passing acquaintance,” said Brad. “Our Chief Commissary Steward is named Krome—an old timer at the job.” “I saw a thin, dark-looking chap on the bus the other night with a crescent on his arm. Do you happen to know him?” “Quite a number down there,” said Jimmy dubiously. “Only one I’ve talked to very often is a fair young chap, named Ned Miller.” “There’s one named Punaro fits your description,” Brad told Kitty. “He empties wastebaskets on our floor.” “Right young—about eighteen or nineteen?” Kitty persisted. “About that. Only been in a few months. Why?” “Oh, nothing. I just happened to see him the other day on the bus.”