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Updated: May 14, 2025
"But I don't quite understand," says he. "What did he mean by er bomb-proofer?" "Just rank flattery, Piddie," says I. "The rankest kind. It's his way of indicatin' that I'm a yellow dog hidin' under a roll-top desk for fear someone'll kick me out where a parlor Pomeranian will look cross at me. Excuse me if I don't seem to work up a blush. Fact is, though, I'm gettin' kind of used to it."
Why, even them bold Liberty bond patriots who commute on the 8:03 are tired of asking me when I'm going to be sent over to tell Pershing how it ought to be done. But when it comes to an old crab of a swivel chair major chuckin' 'bomb-proofer' in my teeth well, I guess that'll be about all. Here's where I get a revise or quit. Right here."
There was more blue stars in evidence than you'd find on any three brownstone front blocks down on Madison or up in the Seventies. One flag had four, and none of 'em stood for butlers or chauffeurs. Course, some was only faded cotton, a few nothing but colored paper, but every star stood for a soldier, and I'll bet there wasn't a bomb-proofer in the lot.
"Sorry, major," says I, "but Mr. Ellins won't be in until 10:30." "Hah!" says he, like bitin' off a piece of glass. "And who are you, lieutenant!" "Special detail from the Ordnance Department, sir," says I. "Oh, you are, eh?" he snorts. "Another bomb-proofer! Well, tell Mr.
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