"Say," he remarks, strugglin' through his khaki shirt, "I didn't think old Quig would do it." "Seemed glad to," says I. "Said you was comin' on fine." "He did?" gasps Wilfred. "Quigley? Well, what do you know!" Not such a bad imitation of a soldier, Wilfred, when he'd laced up the leggins and got the snappy-cut coat buttoned tight. He's some different from what he was when sister first discovered him. And we had quite a gay dinner together. First off mother was for campin' right down there indefinitely, where she could see her darlin' boy every day; but between Wilfred and me we persuaded her different. I expect the hotel quarters had something to do with it, too. Anyway, after Wilfred had promised to try for a couple of days off soon, for a visit home, she consents to start back in the mornin'. "What I dread most, Wilfred," says she, "is leaving you at the mercy of that horrid sergeant." "Oh, I'll get along with him somehow," says Wilfred. "I'm goin' to try, anyway." And right there, as I understand it, Wilfred Stanton Bliss started to be a man and a soldier. He had a long way to go, though, it seemed to me. So here the other day, only a couple of weeks since we made our trip, I'm some surprised to see who it is givin' me the zippy salute on the station platform out home. Yes, it's Wilfred. And say, he's got his shoulders squared, he's carryin' his chin up, and he's wearin' his uniform like it grew on him. "Well, well!" says I. "Got your furlough, eh?" "Yes, sir," says he. "Seventy-two hours. Had a whale of a time, too. You can't guess who I brought home with me, I'll bet." I couldn't. "Our top sergeant--Quigley," says he. "Say, he's all right. He's had us transferred to the best barracks in camp. Guess we deserve it, too, for we're on the way to bein' the crackerjack section of them all. You ought to see us drill. Some class! And it's all due to Quigley. Do you know what he thinks? That we're slated among the next lot to go over. How about that, sir? Won't that be great?" "Huh!" says I. "How long ago was it you signed up, Wilfred?" "Just six weeks, sir," says he. "Whiffo!" says I, gawpin' at him. "If we had about a hundred thousand Quigleys!" CHAPTER XII VEE GOES OVER THE TOP "But listen, Vee," says I. "If Hoover can't pull it off, with all the backin' he's got, what's the use of a few of you women mixin' in?" "At least we can try," says Vee. "The prices this Belcher person is charging are something outrageous. Eggs ninety cents!" "We should worry," says I. "Ain't we got nearly a hundred hens on the job?" "But others haven't," says Vee. "Those people in that row of little cottages down by the station. The Walters, for instance. He can't get more than twenty-five or thirty dollars a week, can he?" "There's so many cases you can't figure out," says I. "Maybe he scrubs along on small steaks or fried chicken."