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"Looks like there was going to be another offensive at Verdun," said Dan Cohan. Someone answered vaguely. "Funny how little we know about what's going on out there," said one man. "I knew more about the war when I was home in Minneapolis than I do here," "I guess we're lightin' into 'em all right," said Fuselli in a patriotic voice. "Hell! Nothin' doin' this time o' year anyway," said Cohan.
They made room for him on the bench. "Well, I'm confined to barracks," said Dan Cohan. "Look at me!" He laughed and gave his head a curious swift jerk to one side. "Compree?" "Ain't ye scared they'll nab you?" said Fuselli. "Nab me, hell, they can't do nothin' to me. I've had three court- martials already and they're gettin' a fourth up on me." Dan Cohan pushed his head to one side and laughed.
He was the George M. Cohan of his time; and I think he also played the clarinet, being a German. We traversed miles of these Schluter masterpieces. Eventually we heard sounds of martial music without, and we went to a window overlooking a paved courtyard; and from that point we presently beheld a fine sight.
"Oh yes; that's what they all say! But I notice that Hitchcock and George M. Cohan go on drawing big audiences every night yes, and the swellest, best-dressed, smartest people in New York and Brooklyn, too it's in the gallery at the opera that you find all these Wops and Swedes and Lord knows what-all.
But then, neither had Georgie Cohan, and I can't see that it wrecked his life any. Now listen. I've got a song. It's my own. That bit you played for me up at Gottschalk's is part of the chorus. But it's the words that'll go big. They're great. It's an aviation song, see? Airplane stuff. They're yelling that it's the airyoplanes that're going to win this war. Well, I'll help 'em.
Two years later while George M. Cohan was composing "Over There," Horace was leading the sophomore class by several lengths and digging out theses on "The Syllogism as an Obsolete Scholastic Form," and during the battle of Chateau-Thierry he was sitting at his desk deciding whether or not to wait until his seventeenth birthday before beginning his series of essays on "The Pragmatic Bias of the New Realists."
He loved to pile the Fagots around a Best Seller and burn it to a Cinder, while the Girls past 30 years of Age sat in front of him and Shuddered. And if you mentioned Georgie Cohan to him, the Foam would begin to fleck his Lips and he would go plumb Locoed.
"You just ask Lieutenant Whitehead, who's defending me in the court-martial, if I'm stringin' yer. I been in the ring, kid, and you can bet your bottom dollar that a man's been in the ring'll tell the truth." "Go on, Dan," said the sergeant. "An' I never heard a word about Bill Rees since. I guess they got him into the trenches and made short work of him." Dan Cohan paused to light a cigarette.
Him and Penrhyn Deems was old college chums together, and while they ain't been real thick in late years they have sort of kept in touch. I suspect that since Penrhyn got to ratin' himself as kind of a combination of Reggie DeKoven and George Cohan he ain't been so easy to get along with. Maybe I'm wrong, but from the few times I've seen him blowin' in here at the Corrugated that was my dope.
Dan Cohan gulped down half a glass of red wine, smacked his thick lips, and began in his story-telling voice: "Our section had just come out of Verdun where we'd been getting hell for three weeks on the Bras road.
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