From the way the skirt bristles, it is clear she is not used to bein’ referred to as a lady … and doesn’t care much for the idea. Smiley isn’t through with her, however.
“Tell me, little lady, what is that you’ve got on your head? If it’s something that crawled up there and died, I hope you’ve had your shots ’cause it doesn’t look like it was any too healthy!”
“It’s called ‘hair,’ Sarge! What do you have on your head?”
“It isn’t what I’ve got on my head that’s important, ’emit,” the sergeant smiles, “it’s what’s on my sleeve!”
He taps the stripes that mark his rank.
“Three up, three down. You know what that means?”
“That you’re a Master Sergeant, Sarge.”
“Close, but no cigar. It means you owe me fifteen pushups, ’emit, five for each time you’ve called me ‘Sarge.’ Hit it!”
I expect the skirt to give him an argument at this, but instead she just drops down and starts pumpin’ out pushups like it’s what she has been after all along … and maybe it was. I don’t know what kind of breakfast-type cereal this broad patronizes, but she is doin’ a notably better job of rackin’ up her pushups than the Flie brothers.
“One … Two … Three …”
Smiley watches her for a few moments, then turns his attention to the other figures on the ground.
“YOU TWO! I said give me twenty-five!”
This last was, of course, directed to the Flie brothers.
“We’re … trying … sergeant!”
“WELL I CAN’T HEAR YOU! COUNT ‘EM OFF!.'”
“Seventeen … eighteen …”
“YOU DON’T START COUNTING AT SEVENTEEN!! YOU START COUNTING AT ONE!!! DO YOU THINK I’M DUMB?!!”