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Glenn drained his glass and smacked his lips: "No, ma’am," he said. "No balloonists, either?" "I don’t guess so, Maryette. We’ve got the Boche flyers scared stiff. They don’t come over our first lines anymore, and our own people are out yonder." "Keed," she said, winningly sweet, "do you, in fact, love me a little for Djack’s sake?" "Yes’m." "I borrow of you that automatic pistol. Yes?"
Her Djack lived; that was what occupied her mind; other men were merely men even his comrades, Sticky Smith and Kid Glenn, assumed individuality to distinguish them from other men only because they were Djack’s friends.
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