The soldier went up to the bar and ordered a beer. He had on his winter issue, belt and buttons and all. He adjusted his little cap carefully, jauntily, and paid for the beer. He was a clean looking soldier, and as far as I can see, he looked like a real soldier. Drinking his beer, he noticed the juke-box in the corner. Walking up to it, he inserted a dime and asked the telephone hostess to play “Pack Up Your Troubles in the Old Kit Bag.” She played it, and the soldier returned to the bar for another beer. One of the drunks in the tavern got up from his table and began to dance to the lively, gay tune. The soldier watched him, quietly pleased. When it was through, he went back to the juke-box and asked the hostess for the same number again. The tune returned, and the drunk resumed his dancing. I was astonished, inwardly. I ate my steak with great delight. The juke-box, I said to my steak, is saving America. For the third time, the soldier played the tune. This time, the drunk began to march around the tavern, swinging his arms in a military manner, left-flanking around chairs and about-facing at the walls; left-obliquing at the booths, and column-lefting at the waitress who hurried around him.
