"The--the class of '71?" muttered the furtive-eyed peasant, turning livid.
"Exactly--the bill of fare needs the hors d'oeuvres; you'll go as an olive, and probably come back a sardine--in a box."
And the fierce little man grinned, lighted a cigarette, and sauntered away, still grinning.
What did he care? He was a pompier and exempt.