her, forgot himself for a moment.
“I’m sorry I pulled that gag,” she said unabashed. “Thanks for rescuing my war paint.
I felt down without it.”
Mitchell grinned at her and she froze up immediately. Hurriedly she began to pull
on her stockings.
“Okay, Marine. Keep your distance.”
“Look here,” said Mitchell. “You’ve got me all wrong. What was the idea of telling
me that whopper in the first place?”
She looked at him resentfully. “I knew what I was doing. I suppose I should have come
right out and said I was what I am. I know Marines by reputation. And—”
“That’s interesting,” said Mitchell. “Even if not true.”
“Well, I got to take care of myself, haven’t I?”
He merely looked at her.
But she was tired and the food had not been good and she wanted to take a hot bath
and then sleep forever and then ride the rest of her life.
She stopped putting on her slippers and put her head down in her hands and her platinum
hair cascaded over her knees. Her shoulders shook.
Mitchell knew it was his fault. He moved closer to her and put his hand on her shoulder
to tell her he was sorry.
She whipped away from him and stood up, backing angrily. “See? What did I tell you?
I let down my guard and you try to make a pass at me. Gee, guy,” and the tears were
big in her blue eyes, “can’t you be square?”
“I was just—”
“Sure. Sure. That’s what they all say!” She drew herself up. “Get this, Marine. I’m
a one-man woman, and I haven’t met him yet. Am I understood?”
Mitchell was sliding into his pack again. He motioned at Toughey to come on and Toughey
shouldered the keg.
She put on her wrecks of slippers and followed them back to the inky road, falling
in between them and marching.
For an hour and four miles, not a word was said. And then Mitchell spoke.
“What’s your real name?”
“Goldy Brown. And if you laugh, I’ll kill you.”
“Okay, Goldy.”
Chapter Nine
A T two o’clock in the morning, human life is at its lowest ebb—and it must have been
close to that dark and eerie hour when Goldy dropped down on a milestone and refused
to go on.
Mitchell looked at her for a long time. “You mean you don’t care whether we leave
you or not?”
“No, I don’t care,” she wept. “Keep going. I don’t care what happens to me, but for
God’s sake don’t make me go on!”
Mitchell tried to pull her to her feet.
“Leave me alone!” she whimpered. “You don’t care what happens to me! All you can think
about is your orders. To hell with your orders! They don’t include me.” She subsided,
slumping wearily, every muscle in her body screaming for rest. There was less than
a shred left of her slippers.
Mitchell lighted a match to look at her and by its jerky glow, her face was haggard.
He dropped it and it glowed in the black road.
“Get up!” said Mitchell, his voice sharp and hard. “Get up and walk. I didn’t ask
you to stay with us and now that you are, you’ll carry on. Get up!”
She did not move. He grabbed her arm and jerked her to her feet. She sagged away from
him and he angrily straightened her up. Half dragging her, he forced her on up the
road. Staggering, Toughey limped after them.
Mechanically then, she was again walking, too numb with fatigue to mind the pain anymore.
And when she faltered, Mitchell’s harsh voice whipped her on.
After a racked eternity, Mitchell called a halt. Toughey and the girl sat down in
the road, dimly aware of the dawn which had begun to spread its crimson flood across
the plains. Mitchell was gone for some time and at last Toughey perked up enough to
light himself a cigarette and look around. He saw Mitchell coming back. Beyond Mitchell
there was a sandbagged wall, sprawled bodies and a broken, smoking gun carriage.
Mitchell sank down beside Goldy. He had three pairs of felt shoes under his arm and,
one by one, he held their soles to her
“I’m sorry I pulled that gag,” she said unabashed. “Thanks for rescuing my war paint.
I felt down without it.”
Mitchell grinned at her and she froze up immediately. Hurriedly she began to pull
on her stockings.
“Okay, Marine. Keep your distance.”
“Look here,” said Mitchell. “You’ve got me all wrong. What was the idea of telling
me that whopper in the first place?”
She looked at him resentfully. “I knew what I was doing. I suppose I should have come
right out and said I was what I am. I know Marines by reputation. And—”
“That’s interesting,” said Mitchell. “Even if not true.”
“Well, I got to take care of myself, haven’t I?”
He merely looked at her.
But she was tired and the food had not been good and she wanted to take a hot bath
and then sleep forever and then ride the rest of her life.
She stopped putting on her slippers and put her head down in her hands and her platinum
hair cascaded over her knees. Her shoulders shook.
Mitchell knew it was his fault. He moved closer to her and put his hand on her shoulder
to tell her he was sorry.
She whipped away from him and stood up, backing angrily. “See? What did I tell you?
I let down my guard and you try to make a pass at me. Gee, guy,” and the tears were
big in her blue eyes, “can’t you be square?”
“I was just—”
“Sure. Sure. That’s what they all say!” She drew herself up. “Get this, Marine. I’m
a one-man woman, and I haven’t met him yet. Am I understood?”
Mitchell was sliding into his pack again. He motioned at Toughey to come on and Toughey
shouldered the keg.
She put on her wrecks of slippers and followed them back to the inky road, falling
in between them and marching.
For an hour and four miles, not a word was said. And then Mitchell spoke.
“What’s your real name?”
“Goldy Brown. And if you laugh, I’ll kill you.”
“Okay, Goldy.”
Chapter Nine
A T two o’clock in the morning, human life is at its lowest ebb—and it must have been
close to that dark and eerie hour when Goldy dropped down on a milestone and refused
to go on.
Mitchell looked at her for a long time. “You mean you don’t care whether we leave
you or not?”
“No, I don’t care,” she wept. “Keep going. I don’t care what happens to me, but for
God’s sake don’t make me go on!”
Mitchell tried to pull her to her feet.
“Leave me alone!” she whimpered. “You don’t care what happens to me! All you can think
about is your orders. To hell with your orders! They don’t include me.” She subsided,
slumping wearily, every muscle in her body screaming for rest. There was less than
a shred left of her slippers.
Mitchell lighted a match to look at her and by its jerky glow, her face was haggard.
He dropped it and it glowed in the black road.
“Get up!” said Mitchell, his voice sharp and hard. “Get up and walk. I didn’t ask
you to stay with us and now that you are, you’ll carry on. Get up!”
She did not move. He grabbed her arm and jerked her to her feet. She sagged away from
him and he angrily straightened her up. Half dragging her, he forced her on up the
road. Staggering, Toughey limped after them.
Mechanically then, she was again walking, too numb with fatigue to mind the pain anymore.
And when she faltered, Mitchell’s harsh voice whipped her on.
After a racked eternity, Mitchell called a halt. Toughey and the girl sat down in
the road, dimly aware of the dawn which had begun to spread its crimson flood across
the plains. Mitchell was gone for some time and at last Toughey perked up enough to
light himself a cigarette and look around. He saw Mitchell coming back. Beyond Mitchell
there was a sandbagged wall, sprawled bodies and a broken, smoking gun carriage.
Mitchell sank down beside Goldy. He had three pairs of felt shoes under his arm and,
one by one, he held their soles to her
Similar Books
