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And as for that old lady over there by that cart, crying so softly say! somebody who can parley this language go over there and tell that old lady not to cry any more. Tell her we'll fix it up, toot sweet. O-o-o! La, la! Pipe the pretty mademoiselle over there driving that dogcart. Ain't she the pippin though! Say "Fall in! Fall in!... Com-pan-ee, At-ten-shun! Forward, March!"
Slush, slog! went the heavy hobnailed shoes slithering through the mud and water of the roads. Mile after mile, hour after hour. At the end of each weary hour a short rest, an easing of the shoulders from the cutting pack straps. Ten minutes only did they rest. Then down the long columns rang the sharp commands, "Fall in. Fall in! ... Com-pan-ee ... Atten-shun! Forward, March!"
"It was a mistake," she continued, on the same consciously gentle key. "We'll both forget it." For this he hated her. A few minutes later they drifted out on the floor while the dozen swaying, sighing members of the specially hired jazz orchestra informed the crowded ballroom that "if a saxophone and me are left alone why then two is com-pan-ee!" A man with a mustache cut in.
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