"
"Honest, Bloss, you'd hand a fellow a ha ha if he invited you to
his funeral."
She sobered at that, leaning against the cold plastered wall,
winding one of the shining curls about her fore finger.
"What's the matter--Hal?"
He handed her a torn newspaper sheet, blue penciled.
She took it but did not glance down.
"Drafted?"
"Yes," he said.
The voice of a soubrette trilling snatches of her topical song as
she creamed off her make-up, came to them through the sulky gloom
of the corridor. Behind the closed door of Miss De Voe's dressing
room, the gabble of the pink satin ponies was like hash in the
chopping. Overhead, moving scenery created a remote sort of thunder.
She stood looking up at him, her young mouth parted.
"I--oh, Hal--well--well, whatta you know about that--Hal
Sanderson--drafted."
He stepped closer, the pallor coming out stronger in his face,
enclosed her wrist, pressing it.
"Grover's drafted too."
"Grover--too?"
"He's three thousand and one. Ten numbers before me."
Her irises were growing, blackening.
"Well, whatta you know about that? Grover White, the world's dancing
tenor, and Hal Sanderson the world dancing tenor's understudy,
drafted! The little tin soldiers are covered with rust and Uncle
Sam is going to--"
"Hurry, Bloss, get into your duds.
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