“Gosh, you got tough,” says Millie. Al empties the creamer into his coffee.
“Is this all the cream there is in the house?” asks Al.
“That’s all,” says Millie.
“It’s a fine situation when a man can’t get enough to eat in his own home,” says Al. He pulls on his waistband. “Look at my pants!”
“What about them?” asks Millie.
“Too big!” says Al. “Gives you an idea of what the war did to my waistline.”
“Holding your stomach in?” asks Millie.
“No,” says Al. “It’s disappeared. I’m going to have to take all my old clothes down to Wyndham and Briggs and get ’em altered.”
“I wouldn’t be in too much of a hurry about that,” says Millie. “A couple of weeks of heavy eating and those pants will fit perfectly.”
The phone rings.
“Don’t answer it,” says Al. Millie gets up from the table, anyway, and answers the phone.
“Hello?” says Millie. “Oh, yes, he’s here!”
“Me?” says Al. “If it’s the War Department, I’m out!”
“It’s Mister Milton,” says Millie.
“Who?” asks Al.
“Mister Milton! At the bank!” says Millie.
“Oh,” says Al, getting up from the table.
“He’ll be right on,” says Millie. She hands Al the phone.
“Hello?” says Al. “Ah, yes, Mister Milton.”