Well, anyway, that’s the kind of a party it was: harmless and pleasant and, so far as I could see, marking no progress toward our goal. However, the Captain didn’t seem to be very downhearted about it. He said for me to keep at it—and we’d call again day after to-morrow. Ben returned to the land of the living that day and we went out to see the General in the afternoon. He said he had a wonderful time: “When you ain’t around to cramp my style, I just bowl over the mademoiselles like tin soldiers! There’s about ten thousand women in this burg that have been just waitin’ fer me to appear!” “Gosh—you’ll have to work pretty fast, won’t you?” I observed. “Boy,” he retorted, “I’m built for it! It’ll be hard work, but I ain’t the kind to disappoint the ladies. I can stand it, don’t worry.” That man certainly had confidence in himself. I told him I guessed he was the “bull” in boulevard. He said, “No wise cracks! I’m God’s answer to these mademoiselles’ prayers.” What an answer! “Special delivery,” as it were! Not the message, but the messenger that counts ... but Ben couldn’t see any joke in that crack. —3— I didn’t have to make excuses to Ben on the third day of the chase; he just ambled away to begin his efforts toward making the demand for women meet the supply, and I joined Captain Winstead at a corner about two blocks away—as he suggested. He was in civilian clothes and I was glad, because, after all, an enlisted man doesn’t feel entirely comfortable with an officer, regardless of how congenial the officer may try to be. He suggested that we try to find a little vulgar entertainment, and I suspected immediately that he meant go looking for women. But I was wrong: he meant that he wanted to show me some of the “show places.” “There’s a couple of more or less ribald dives we might visit, just to get away from what we are accustomed to,” he explained. So I followed him and we came at last to a cellar café, dimly lit and apparently very popular with American soldiers and their women. We found a table, not too conspicuous, and ordered some sweet drinks, because I said I preferred grenadine to anything else. We didn’t talk much while these lasted, but spent our time looking over the crowd in the place. A gaudily clad woman, with one breast threatening any moment to pop out, was singing a French version of a popular American song and some half-drunk Americans were trying to sing with her. The place reeked with stale tobacco smoke and the smell of cheap perfume, but the grenadine tasted good. “Let’s try a cognac citron now,” suggested my companion, when the grenadine had disappeared and the garçon stood again at our side.