The
sidewalks were peopled by vividly dressed, overpainted girls, who
chattered volubly in low, lazy voices, by dozens of taxi-drivers who
assailed passing officers with "Take y' anywheh, _Lieu_tenant," and by
an intermittent procession of ragged, shuffling, subservient negroes.
Anthony, loitering along through the warm dusk, felt for the first time
in years the slow, erotic breath of the South, imminent in the hot
softness of the air, in the pervasive lull, of thought and time.
He had gone about a block when he was arrested suddenly by a harsh
command at his elbow.
"Haven't you been taught to salute officers?"
He looked dumbly at the man who addressed him, a stout, black-haired
captain, who fixed him menacingly with brown pop-eyes.
"_Come to attention!_" The words were literally thundered. A few
pedestrians near by stopped and stared. A soft-eyed girl in a lilac
dress tittered to her companion.
Anthony came to attention.
"What's your regiment and company?"
Anthony told him.
"After this when you pass an officer on the street you straighten up and
salute!"
"All right!"
"Say 'Yes, sir!'"
"Yes, sir."
The stout officer grunted, turned sharply, and marched down the street.
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