“You should have served in Intelligence.”

“You are blessed with a fair amount of intuition yourself.”

“Oh, I knew you didn’t want to sit near that Jap.  Can’t bear the race myself.”

She nodded approvingly.

“Waiter’s still out in the kitchen,” she reminded him.  “Now, old soldier, aren’t you glad I took pity on you?  Your steak would have been cold before he got round to you, and I imagine you’ve had sufficient cold rations to do you quite a while.”

“It was sweet of you to come to my rescue.  I’m not exactly crippled, though I haven’t used my hand for more than two months, and the muscles are slightly atrophied.  The knife slips because I cannot close my hand tightly.  But I’ll be all right in another month.”

“What happened to it?”

“Saber-thrust.  Wouldn’t have amounted to much if the Bolshevik who did the thrusting had had a clean saber.  Blood-poisoning set in, but our battalion surgeon got to work on it in time to save me from being permanently crippled.”

“‘Saber-thrust?’ They got that close to you?”

He nodded.

“Troop of Semenoff’s bandits in a little two-by-four fight out on the trans-Siberian railroad.  Guess they wanted the trainload of rations we were guarding.  My captain killed the fellow who stuck me and accounted for four others who tried to finish me.”

“Captains think a great deal of good first sergeants,” she suggested.  “And you got a wound-chevron out of it.  I suppose, like every soldier, you wanted one, provided it didn’t cost too much.”

“Oh, yes.  And I got mine rather cheap.  The battalion surgeon fixed it so I didn’t have to go to the hospital.  Never missed a day of duty.”

She handed him his plate with the steak cut into bits.

“It was nice of you to surrender your cozy seat to me this morning, Sergeant.”  She buttered a piece of bread for him and added, “But very much nicer the way you did it.”

“‘Cast thy bread upon the waters,’” he quoted, and grinned brazenly.  “Nevertheless, if I were in civvies, you’d have permitted the waiter to cut my steak.”

“Oh, of course we veterans must stand together, Sergeant.”

“I find it pleasanter sitting together.  By the way, may I ask the identity of the Nipponese person, with your father?”

“How do you know he is my father?” she parried.

“I do not know.  I merely thought he looked quite worthy of the honor.”

“While away with the rough, bad soldiers, you did not forget how to make graceful speeches,” she complimented him.  “The object of your pardonable curiosity is a Mr. Okada, the potato baron of California.  He was formerly prime minister to the potato king of the San Joaquin, but revolted and became a pretender to the throne.  While the king lives, however, Okada is merely a baron, although in a few years he will probably control the potato market absolutely.”