And so, in this unexpected fashion, came prematurely the end of the four year trial agreement between Albert Speranza and Z. Snow and Co. Of course neither Captain Zelotes nor Albert admitted that it had ended. Each professed to regard the break as merely temporary.

“You'll be back at that desk in a little while, Al,” said the captain, “addin' up figgers and tormentin' Issy.” And Albert's reply was invariably, “Why, of course, Grandfather.”

He had dreaded his grandmother's reception of the news of his intended enlistment. Olive worshiped her daughter's boy and, although an ardent patriot, was by no means as fiercely belligerent as her husband. She prayed each night for the defeat of the Hun, whereas Captain Lote was for licking him first and praying afterwards. Albert feared a scene; he feared that she might be prostrated when she learned that he was to go to war. But she bore it wonderfully well, and as for the dreaded “scene,” there was none.

“Zelotes says he thinks it's the right thing for you to do, Albert,” she said, “so I suppose I ought to think so, too. But, oh, my dear, DO you really feel that you must? I—it don't seem as I could bear to . . . but there, I mustn't talk so. It ain't a mite harder for me than it is for thousands of women all over this world. . . . And perhaps the government folks won't take you, anyway. Rachel said she read in the Item about some young man over in Bayport who was rejected because he had fat feet. She meant flat feet, I suppose, poor thing. Oh, dear me, I'm laughin', and it seems wicked to laugh a time like this. And when I think of you goin', Albert, I—I . . . but there, I promised Zelotes I wouldn't. . . . And they MAY not take you. . . . But oh, of course they will, of course they will! . . . I'm goin' to make you a chicken pie for dinner to-day; I know how you like it. . . . If only they MIGHT reject you! . . . But there, I said I wouldn't and I won't.”

Rachel Ellis's opinion on the subject and her way of expressing that opinion were distinctly her own. Albert arose early in the morning following the announcement of his decision to enter the service. He had not slept well; his mind was too busy with problems and speculations to resign itself to sleep. He had tossed about until dawn and had then risen and sat down at the table in his bedroom to write Madeline of the step he had determined to take. He had not written her while he was considering that step. He felt, somehow, that he alone with no pressure from without should make the decision. Now that it was made, and irrevocably made, she must of course be told. Telling her, however, was not an easy task. He was sure she would agree that he had done the right thing, the only thing, but—

“It is going to be very hard for you, dear,” he wrote, heedless of the fact that Mrs. Fosdick's censorious eye would see and condemn the “dear.” “It is going to be hard for both of us. But I am sure you will feel as I do that I COULDN'T do anything else. I am young and strong and fit and I am an American. I MUST go. You see it, don't you, Madeline. I can hardly wait until your letter comes telling me that you feel I did just the thing you would wish me to do.”

He hesitated and then, even more regardless of the censor, added the quotation which countless young lovers were finding so apt just then:

So when, fresh from the intimacy of this communication with his adored and with the letter in his hand, he entered the sitting-room at that early hour he was not overjoyed to find the housekeeper there ahead of him. And her first sentence showed that she had been awaiting his coming.

“Good mornin', Albert,” she said. “I heard you stirrin' 'round up in your room and I came down here so's you and I could talk together for a minute without anybody's disturbin' us. . . . Humph! I guess likely you didn't sleep any too well last night, did you?”

Albert shook his head. “Not too well, Rachel,” he replied.

“I shouldn't wonder. Well, I doubt if there was too much sleep anywheres in this house last night. So you're really goin' to war, are you, Albert?”

“Yes. If the war will let me I certainly am.”

“Dear, dear! . . . Well, I—I think it's what Robert Penfold would have done if he was in your place. I've been goin' over it and goin' over it half the night, myself, and I've come to that conclusion. It's goin' to be awful hard on your grandma and grandfather and me and Labe, all us folks here at home, but I guess it's the thing you'd ought to do, the Penfold kind of thing.”

Albert smiled. “I'm glad you think so, Rachel,” he said.

“Well, I do, and if I'm goin' to tell the truth I might as well say I tried terrible hard to find some good reasons for thinkin' 'twan't. I did SO! But the only good reasons I could scare up for makin' you stay to home was because home was safe and comf'table and where you was goin' wan't. And that kind of reasonin' might do fust-rate for a passel of clams out on the flats, but it wouldn't be much credit to decent, self-respectin' humans. When General Rolleson came to that island and found his daughter and Robert Penfold livin' there in that house made out of pearls he'd built for her—Wan't that him all over! Another man, the common run of man, would have been satisfied to build her a house out of wood and lucky to get that, but no, nothin' would do him but pearls, and if they'd have been di'monds he'd have been better satisfied. Well. . . . Where was I? . . . Oh yes! When General Rolleson came there and says to his daughter, 'Helen, you come home along of me,' and she says, 'No, I shan't leave him,' meanin' Robert Penfold, you understand—When she says that did Robert Penfold say, 'That's the talk! Put that in your pipe, old man, and smoke it?' No, SIR, he didn't! He says, 'Helen, you go straight home along with your pa and work like fury till you find out who forged that note and laid it onto me. You find that out,' he says, 'and then you can come fetch me and not afore.' That's the kind of man HE was! And they sailed off and left him behind.”

Albert shook his head. He had heard only about half of the housekeeper's story. “Pretty rough on him, I should say,” he commented, absently.

“I GUESS 'twas rough on him, poor thing! But 'twas his duty and so he done it. It was rough on Helen, havin' to go and leave him, but 'twas rougher still on him. It's always roughest, seems to me,” she added, “on the ones that's left behind. Those that go have somethin' to take up their minds and keep 'em from thinkin' too much. The ones that stay to home don't have much to do EXCEPT think. I hope you don't get the notion that I feel your part of it is easy, Al. Only a poor, crazy idiot could read the papers these days and feel that any part of this war was EASY! It's awful, but—but it WILL keep you too busy to think, maybe.”

“I shouldn't wonder, Rachel. I understand what you mean.”

“We're all goin' to miss you, Albert. This house is goin' to be a pretty lonesome place, I cal'late. Your grandma'll miss you dreadful and so will I, but—but I have a notion that your grandpa's goin' to miss you more'n anybody else.”

He shook his head. “Oh, not as much as all that, Rachel,” he said. “He and I have been getting on much better than we used to and we have come to understand each other better, but he is still disappointed in me. I'm afraid I don't count for much as a business man, you see; and, besides, Grandfather can never quite forget that I am the son of what he calls a Portygee play actor.”

Mrs. Ellis looked at him earnestly. “He's forgettin' it better every day, Albert,” she said. “I do declare I never believed Capt'n Lote Snow could forget it the way he's doin'. And you—well, you've forgot a whole lot, too. Memory's a good thing, the land knows,” she added, sagely, “but a nice healthy forgetery is worth consider'ble—some times and in some cases.”

Issachar Price's comments on his fellow employee's decision to become a soldier were pointed. Issy was disgusted.

“For thunder sakes, Al,” he demanded, “'tain't true that you've enlisted to go to war and fight them Germans, is it?”

Albert smiled. “I guess it is, Issy,” he replied.

“Well, by crimus!”

“Somebody had to go, you see, Is.”

“Well, by crimustee!”

“What's the matter, Issy? Don't you approve?”

“Approve! No, by crimus, I don't approve! I think it's a divil of a note, that's what I think.”

“Why?”

“WHY? Who's goin' to do the work in this office while you're gone? Labe and me, that's who; and I'll do the heft of it. Slavin' myself half to death as 'tis and now—Oh, by crimustee! This war is a darned nuisance. It hadn't ought to be allowed. There'd ought to be a law against it.”

But of all the interviews which followed Albert's decision the most surprising and that which he was the least likely to forget was his interview with Laban Keeler. It took place on the evening of the third day following the announcement of his intention to enlist. All that day, and indeed for several days, Albert had noted in the little bookkeeper certain symptoms, familiar symptoms they were and from experience the young man knew what they portended. Laban was very nervous, his fingers twitched as he wrote, occasionally he rose from his chair and walked up and down the room, he ran his hand through his scanty hair, he was inclined to be irritable—that is, irritable for him. Albert had noted the symptoms and was sorry. Captain Zelotes noted them and frowned and pulled his beard.

“Al,” he said to his grandson, “if you can put off goin' up to enlist for a little spell, a few days, I wish you would. Labe's gettin' ready to go on one of his vacations.”

Albert nodded. “I'm afraid he is,” he said.

“Oh, it's as sartin as two and two makes four. I've lived with him too many years not to know the signs. And I did hope,” he added, regretfully, “that maybe he was tryin' to break off. It's been a good long spell, an extry long spell, since he had his last spree. Ah hum! it's a pity a good man should have that weak spot in him, ain't it? But if you could hang around a few more days, while the vacation's goin' on, I'd appreciate it, Al. I kind of hate to be left here alone with nobody but Issachar to lean on. Issy's a good deal like a post in some ways, especially in the makeup of his head, but he's too ricketty to lean on for any length of time.”

That evening Albert went to the post-office for the mail. On his way back as he passed the dark corner by the now closed and shuttered moving-picture theater he was hailed in a whisper.

“Al,” said a voice, “Al.”

Albert turned and peered into the deep shadow of the theater doorway. In the summer this doorway was a blaze of light and gaiety; now it was cold and bleak and black enough. From the shadow a small figure emerged on tiptoe.

“Al,” whispered Mr. Keeler. “That's you, ain't it? Yes, yes—yes, yes, yes—I thought 'twas, I thought so.”

Albert was surprised. For one thing it was most unusual to see the little bookkeeper abroad after nine-thirty. His usual evening procedure, when not on a vacation, was to call upon Rachel Ellis at the Snow place for an hour or so and then to return to his room over Simond's shoe store, which room he had occupied ever since the building was erected.

There he read, so people said, until eleven sharp, when his lamp was extinguished. During or at the beginning of the vacation periods he usually departed for some unknown destination, destinations which, apparently, varied. He had been seen, hopelessly intoxicated, in Bayport, in Ostable, in Boston, once in Providence. When he returned he never seemed to remember exactly where he had been. And, as most people were fond of and pitied him, few questions were asked.

“Why, Labe!” exclaimed Albert. “Is that you? What's the matter?”

“Busy, are you, Al?” queried Laban. “In a hurry, eh? Are you? In a hurry, Al, eh?”

“Why no, not especially.”

“Could you—could you spare me two or three minutes? Two or three minutes—yes, yes? Come up to my room, could you—could you, Al?”

“Yes indeed. But what is it, Labe?”

“I want to talk. Want to talk, I do. Yes, yes, yes. Saw you go by and I've been waitin' for you. Waitin'—yes, I have—yes.”

He seized his assistant by the arm and led him across the road toward the shoe store. Albert felt the hand on his arm tremble violently.

“Are you cold, Labe?” he asked. “What makes you shiver so?”

“Eh? Cold? No, I ain't cold—no, no, no. Come, Al, come.”

Albert sniffed suspiciously, but no odor of alcohol rewarded the sniff. Neither was there any perfume of peppermint, Mr. Keeler's transparent camouflage at a vacation's beginning. And Laban was not humming the refrain glorifying his “darling hanky-panky.” Apparently he had not yet embarked upon the spree which Captain Lote had pronounced imminent. But why did he behave so queerly?

“I ain't the way you think, Al,” declared the little man, divining his thought. “I'm just kind of shaky and nervous, that's all. That's all, that's all, that's all. Yes, yes. Come, come! COME!”

The last “come” burst from him in an agony of impatience. Albert hastened up the narrow stairs, Laban leading the way. The latter fumbled with a key, his companion heard it rattling against the keyhole plate. Then the door opened. There was a lamp, its wick turned low, burning upon the table in the room. Mr. Keeler turned it up, making a trembly job of the turning. Albert looked about him; he had never been in that room before.

It was a small room and there was not much furniture in it. And it was a neat room, for the room of an old bachelor who was his own chambermaid. Most things seemed to have places where they belonged and most of them appeared to be in those places. What impressed Albert even more was the number of books. There were books everywhere, in the cheap bookcase, on the pine shelf between the windows, piled in the corners, heaped on the table beside the lamp. They were worn and shabby volumes for the most part, some with but half a cover remaining, some with none. He picked up one of the latter. It was Locke on The Human Understanding; and next it, to his astonishment, was Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

Mr. Keeler looked over his shoulder and, for an instant, the whimsical smile which was characteristic of him curved his lip.

“Philosophy, Al,” he observed. “If Locke don't suit you try the 'mad hatter' feller. I get consider'ble comfort out of the hatter, myself. Do you remember when the mouse was tellin' the story about the three sisters that lived in the well? He said they lived on everything that began with M. Alice says 'Why with an M?' And the hatter, or the March hare, I forget which 'twas, says prompt, 'Why not?' . . . Yes, yes, why not? that's what he said. . . . There's some philosophy in that, Al. Why does a hen go across the road? Why not? Why is Labe Keeler a disgrace to all his friends and the town he lives in? Why not? . . . Eh? . . . Yes, yes. That's it—why not?”

He smiled again, but there was bitterness and not humor in the smile. Albert put a hand on his shoulder.

“Why, Labe,” he asked, in concern, “what is it?”

Laban turned away.

“Don't mind, me, Al,” he said, hurriedly. “I mean don't mind if I act funny. I'm—I'm kind of—of—Oh, good Lord A'mighty, DON'T look at me like that! . . . I beg your pardon, Al. I didn't mean to bark like a dog at you. No, I didn't—no, no. Forgive me, will you? Will you, Al, eh?”

“Of course I will. But what is the matter, Labe? Sit down and tell me about it.”

Instead of sitting the little bookkeeper began to walk up and down.

“Don't mind me, Al,” he said, hurriedly. “Don't mind me. Let me go my own gait. My own gait—yes, yes. You see, Al, I—I'm tryin' to enlist, same as you're goin' to do, and—and MY fight's begun already. Yes indeed—yes, yes—it has so.”

Albert was more astonished than ever. There was no smell of alcohol, and Keeler had declared that he had not been drinking; but—

“You're going to ENLIST?” repeated Albert. “YOU? Why, Labe, what—”

Laban laughed nervously. “Not to kill the Kaiser,” he replied. “No, no, not that—not exactly. I'd like to, only I wouldn't be much help that way. But—but Al, I—I want to do somethin'. I—I'd like to try to show—I'd like to be an American, a decent American, and the best way to begin, seems to me, is to try and be a man, a decent man. Eh? You understand, I—I—Oh, Lord, what a mess I am makin' of this! I—I—Al,” turning and desperately waving his hands, “I'm goin' to try to swear off. Will you help me?”

Albert's answer was enthusiastic. “You bet I will!” he exclaimed. Keeler smiled pathetically.

“It's goin' to be some job, I cal'late,” he said. “Some job, yes, yes. But I'm goin' to try it, Al. I read in the papers 'tother day that America needed every man. Then you enlisted, Al,—or you're goin' to enlist. It set me to thinkin' I'd try to enlist, too. For the duration of the war, eh? Yes, yes.”

“Good for you, Labe! Bully!”

Laban held up a protesting hand. “Don't hurrah yet, Al,” he said. “This ain't the first time I've tried it. I've swore off a dozen times in the last fifteen years. I've promised Rachel and broke the promise over and over again. Broke my promise to her, the best woman in the world. Shows what I am, what sort I am, don't it, Al? Yes, it does,—yes, yes. And she's stuck by me, too, Lord knows why. Last time I broke it I said I'd never promise her again. Bad enough to be a common drunk without bein' a liar—yes, yes. But this is a little different. Seems to me—seems so.”

He began his pacing up and down again.

“Seems different, somehow,” he went on. “Seems like a new chance. I want to do somethin' for Uncle Sam. I—I'd like to try and enlist for the duration of the war—swear off for that long, anyhow. Then, maybe, I'd be able to keep on for life, you know—duration of Labe Keeler, eh? Yes, yes, yes. But I could begin for just the war, couldn't I? Maybe, 'twould fool me into thinkin' that was easier.”

“Of course, Labe. It's a good idea.”

“Maybe; and maybe it's a fool one. But I'm goin' to try it. I AM tryin' it, have been all day.”

He paused, drew a shaking hand across his forehead and then asked, “Al, will you help me? I asked you up here hopin' you would. Will you, Al, eh? Will you?”

Albert could not understand how he could possibly help another man keep the pledge, but his promise was eagerly given.

“Certainly, Labe,” he said.

“Thanks . . . thank you, Al. . . . And now will you do something for me—a favor?”

“Gladly. What is it?”

Laban did not answer at once. He appeared to be on the point of doing so, but to be struggling either to find words or to overcome a tremendous reluctance. When he did speak the words came in a burst.

“Go down stairs,” he cried. “Down those stairs you came up. At the foot of 'em, in a kind of cupboard place, under 'em, there's—there probably is a jug, a full jug. It was due to come by express to-day and I cal'late it did, cal'late Jim Young fetched it down this afternoon. I—I could have looked for myself and seen if 'twas there,” he added, after a momentary hesitation, “but—but I didn't dare to. I was afraid I'd—I'd—”

“All right, Labe. I understand. What do you want me to do with it if it is there?”

“I want you—I want you to—to—” The little bookkeeper seemed to be fighting another internal battle between inclination and resolution. The latter won, for he finished with, “I want you to take it out back of the buildin' and—and empty it. That's what I want you to do, empty it, Al, every drop. . . . And, for the Almighty's sake, go quick,” he ordered, desperately, “or I'll tell you not to before you start. Go!”

Albert went. He fumbled in the cupboard under the stairs, found the jug—a large one and heavy—and hastened out into the night with it in his hands. Behind the shoe store, amid a heap of old packing boxes and other rubbish, he emptied it. The process was rather lengthy and decidedly fragrant. As a finish he smashed the jug with a stone. Then he climbed the stairs again.

Laban was waiting for him, drops of perspiration upon his forehead.

“Was—was it there?” he demanded.

Albert nodded.

“Yes, yes. 'Twas there, eh? And did you—did you—?”

“Yes, I did, jug and all.”

“Thank you, Al . . . thank you . . . I—I've been trying to muster up spunk enough to do it myself, but—but I swan I couldn't. I didn't dast to go nigh it . . . I'm a fine specimen, ain't I, now?” he added, with a twisted smile. “Some coward, eh? Yes, yes. Some coward.”

Albert, realizing a little of the fight the man was making, was affected by it. “You're a brick, Labe,” he declared, heartily. “And as for being a coward—Well, if I am half as brave when my turn comes I shall be satisfied.”

Laban shook his head. “I don't know how scared I'd be of a German bombshell,” he said, “but I'm everlastin' sure I wouldn't run from it for fear of runnin' towards it, and that's how I felt about that jug. . . . Yes, yes, yes. I did so . . . I'm much obliged to you, Al. I shan't forget it—no, no. I cal'late you can trot along home now, if you want to. I'm pretty safe—for to-night, anyhow. Guess likely the new recruit won't desert afore morning.”

But Albert, watching him intently, refused to go.

“I'm going to stay for a while, Labe,” he said. “I'm not a bit sleepy, really. Let's have a smoke and talk together. That is, of course, unless you want to go to bed.”

Mr. Keeler smiled his twisted smile. “I ain't crazy to,” he said. “The way I feel now I'd get to sleep about week after next. But I hadn't ought to keep you up, Al.”

“Rubbish! I'm not sleepy, I tell you. Sit down. Have a cigar. Now what shall we talk about? How would books do? What have you been reading lately, Labe?”

They smoked and talked books until nearly two. Then Laban insisted upon his guest departing. “I'm all right, Al” he declared, earnestly. “I am honest—yes, yes, I am. I'll go to sleep like a lamb, yes indeed.”

“You'll be at the office in the morning, won't you, Labe?”

The little bookkeeper nodded. “I'll be there,” he said. “Got to answer roll call the first mornin' after enlistment. Yes, yes. I'll be there, Al.”

He was there, but he did not look as if his indulgence in the lamb-like sleep had been excessive. He was so pale and haggard that his assistant was alarmed.

“You're not sick, are you, Labe?” he asked, anxiously. Laban shook his head.

“No,” he said. “No, I ain't sick. Been doin' picket duty up and down the room since half past three, that's all. Um-hm, that's all. Say, Al, if General what's-his-name—er—von Hindenburg—is any harder scrapper than old Field Marshal Barleycorn he's a pretty tough one. Say, Al, you didn't say anything about—about my—er—enlistin' to Cap'n Lote, did you? I meant to ask you not to.”

“I didn't, Labe. I thought you might want it kept a secret.”

“Um-hm. Better keep it in the ranks until we know how this first—er—skirmish is comin' out. Yes, yes. Better keep it that way. Um-hm.”

All day he stuck manfully at his task and that evening, immediately after supper, Albert went to the room over the shoe store, found him there and insisted upon his coming over to call upon Rachel. He had not intended doing so.

“You see, Al,” he explained, “I'm—I'm kind of—er—shaky and Rachel will be worried, I'm afraid. She knows me pretty well and she'll cal'late I'm just gettin' ready to—to bust loose again.”

Albert interrupted. “No, she won't, Laban,” he said. “We'll show her that you're not.”

“You won't say anything to her about my—er—enlistin', Al? Don't. No, no. I've promised her too many times—and broke the promises. If anything should come of this fight of mine I'd rather she'd find it out for herself. Better to surprise her than to disapp'int her. Yes, yes, lots better.”

Albert promised not to tell Rachel and so Laban made his call. When it was over the young man walked home with him and the pair sat and talked until after midnight, just as on the previous night. The following evening it was much the same, except that, as Mr. Keeler pronounced himself more than usually “shaky” and expressed a desire to “keep movin',” they walked half way to Orham and back before parting. By the end of the week Laban declared the fight won—for the time.

“You've pulled me through the fust tussle, Al,” he said. “I shan't desert now, not till the next break-out, anyhow. I cal'late it'll get me harder than ever then. Harder than ever—yes, yes. And you won't be here to help me, neither.”

“Never mind; I shall be thinking of you, Labe. And I know you're going to win. I feel it in my bones.”

“Um-hm. . . . Yes, yes, yes. . . In your bones, eh? Well, MY bones don't seem to feel much, except rheumatics once in a while. I hope yours are better prophets, but I wouldn't want to bet too high on it. No, I wouldn't—no, no. However, we'll do our best, and they say angels can't do any more—though they'd probably do it in a different way . . . some different. . . . Um-hm. . . . Yes, indeed.”

Two letters came to Albert before that week ended. The first was from Madeline. He had written her of his intention to enlist and this was her reply. The letter had evidently been smuggled past the censor, for it contained much which Mrs. Fosdick would have blue-penciled. Its contents were a blend of praise and blame, of exaltation and depression. He was a hero, and so brave, and she was so proud of him. It was wonderful his daring to go, and just what she would have expected of her hero. If only she might see him in his uniform. So many of the fellows she knew had enlisted. They were wonderfully brave, too, although of course nothing like as wonderful as her own etcetera, etcetera. She had seen some of THEM in their uniforms and they were PERFECTLY SPLENDID. But they were officers, or they were going to be. Why wasn't he going to be an officer? It was so much nicer to be an officer. And if he were one he might not have to go away to fight nearly so soon. Officers stayed here longer and studied, you know. Mother had said something about “a common private,” and she did not like it. But never mind, she would be just as proud no matter what he was. And she should dream of him and think of him always and always. And perhaps he might be so brave and wonderful that he would be given one of those war crosses, the Croix de Guerre or something. She was sure he would. But oh, no matter what happened, he must not go where it was TOO dangerous. Suppose he should be wounded. Oh, suppose, SUPPOSE he should be killed. What would she do then? What would become of her? MUST he go, after all? Couldn't he stay at home and study or something, for a while, you know? She should be so lonely after he was gone. And so frightened and so anxious. And he wouldn't forget her, would he, no matter where he went? Because she never, never, never would forget him for a moment. And he must write every day. And—

The letter was fourteen pages long.

The other letter was a surprise. It was from Helen. The Reverend Mr. Kendall had been told of Albert's intended enlistment and had written his daughter.

So you are going into the war, Albert (she wrote). I am not surprised because I expected you would do just that. It is what all of us would like to do, I'm sure, and you were always anxious to go, even before the United States came in. So I am writing this merely to congratulate you and to wish you the very best of good luck. Father says you are not going to try for a commission but intend enlisting as a private. I suppose that is because you think you may get to the actual fighting sooner. I think I understand and appreciate that feeling too, but are you sure it is the best plan? You want to be of the greatest service to the country and with your education and brains—This ISN'T flattery, because it is true—don't you think you might help more if you were in command of men? Of course I don't know, being only a girl, but I have been wondering. No doubt you know best and probably it is settled before this; at any rate, please don't think that I intend butting in. “Butting in” is not at all a proper expression for a schoolmarm to use but it is a relief to be human occasionally. Whatever you do I am sure will be the right thing and I know all your friends are going to be very, very proud of you. I shall hear of you through the people at home, I know, and I shall be anxious to hear. I don't know what I shall do to help the cause, but I hope to do something. A musket is prohibitive to females but the knitting needle is ours and I CAN handle that, if I do say it. And I MAY go in for Red Cross work altogether. But I don't count much, and you men do, and this is your day. Please, for the sake of your grandparents and all your friends, don't take unnecessary chances. I can see your face as you read that and think that I am a silly idiot. I'm not and I mean what I say. You see I know YOU and I know you will not be content to do the ordinary thing. We want you to distinguish yourself, but also we want you to come back whole and sound, if it is possible. We shall think of you a great deal. And please, in the midst of the excitement of the BIG work you are doing, don't forget us home folk, including your friend,

HELEN KENDALL.

Albert's feelings when he read this letter were divided. He enjoyed hearing from Helen. The letter was just like herself, sensible and good-humored and friendly. There were no hysterics in it and no heroics but he knew that no one except his grandparents and Rachel and Laban—and, of course, his own Madeline—would think of him oftener or be more anxious for his safety and welfare than Helen. He was glad she was his friend, very glad. But he almost wished she had not written. He felt a bit guilty at having received the letter. He was pretty sure that Madeline would not like the idea. He was tempted to say nothing concerning it in his next letter to his affianced, but that seemed underhanded and cowardly, so he told her. And in her next letter to him Madeline made no reference at all to Helen or her epistle, so he knew she was displeased. And he was miserable in consequence.

But his misery did not last long. The happenings which followed crowded it from his mind, and from Madeline's also, for that matter. One morning, having told no one except his grandfather of his intention, he took the morning train to Boston. When he returned the next day he was Uncle Sam's man, sworn in and accepted. He had passed the physical examination with flying colors and the recruiting officers expressed themselves as being glad to get him. He was home for but one day leave, then he must go to stay. He had debated the question of going in for a commission, but those were the early days of our participation in the war and a Plattsburg training or at least some sort of military education was almost an essential. He did not want to wait; as he had told his grandfather, he wanted to fight. So he enlisted as a private.

And when the brief leave was over he took the train for Boston, no longer Alberto Miguel Carlos Speranza, South Harniss's Beau Brummel, poet and Portygee, but Private Speranza, U.S.A. The farewells were brief and no one cried—much. His grandmother hugged and kissed him, Rachel looked very much as if she wanted to. Laban and Issachar shook hands with him.

“Good luck to you, boy,” said Mr. Keeler. “All the luck there is.”

“Same to you, old man,” replied Albert. Then, in a lower tone, he added, “We'll fight it out together, eh?”

“We'll try. Yes, yes. We'll try. So long, Al.”

Issachar struck the reassuring note. “Don't fret about things in the office,” he said. “I'll look out for 'em long's I keep my health.”

“Be sure and keep that, Issy.”

“You bet you! Only thing that's liable to break it down is over-work.”

Captain Zelotes said very little. “Write us when you can, Al,” he said. “And come home whenever you get leave.”

“You may be sure of that, Grandfather. And after I get to camp perhaps you can come and see me.”

“Maybe so. Will if I can. . . . Well, Al, I . . . I. . . . Good luck to you, son.”

“Thank you, Grandfather.”

They shook hands. Each looked as if there was more he would have liked to say but found the saying hard. Then the engine bell rang and the hands fell apart. The little group on the station platform watched the train disappear. Mrs. Snow and Rachel wiped their eyes with their handkerchiefs. Captain Zelotes gently patted his wife's shoulder.

“The team's waitin', Mother,” he said. “Labe'll drive you and Rachel home.”

“But—but ain't you comin', too, Zelotes?” faltered Olive. Her husband shook his head.

“Not now, Mother,” he answered. “Got to go back to the office.”

He stood for an instant looking at the faint smear of smoke above the curve in the track. Then, without another word, he strode off in the direction of Z. Snow and Co.'s buildings. Issachar Price sniffed.

“Crimus,” he whispered to Laban, as the latter passed him on the way to where Jessamine, the Snow horse, was tied, “the old man takes it cool, don't he! I kind of imagined he'd be sort of shook up by Al's goin' off to war, but he don't seem to feel it a mite.”

Keeler looked at him in wonder. Then he drew a long breath.

“Is,” he said, slowly, “it is a mighty good thing for the Seven Wise Men of Greece that they ain't alive now.”

It was Issachar's turn to stare. “Eh?” he queried. “The Seven Wise Men of Which? Good thing for 'em they ain't alive? What kind of talk's that? Why is it a good thing?”

Laban spoke over his shoulder. “Because,” he drawled, “if they was alive now they'd be so jealous of you they'd commit suicide. Yes, they would. . . . Yes, yes.”

With which enigmatical remark he left Mr. Price and turned his attention to the tethered Jessamine.

And then began a new period, a new life at the Snow place and in the office of Z. Snow and Co. Or, rather, life in the old house and at the lumber and hardware office slumped back into the groove in which it had run before the opera singer's son was summoned from the New York school to the home and into the lives of his grandparents. Three people instead of four sat down at the breakfast table and at dinner and at supper. Captain Zelotes walked alone to and from the office. Olive Snow no longer baked and iced large chocolate layer cakes because a certain inmate of her household was so fond of them. Rachel Ellis discussed Foul Play and Robert Penfold with no one. The house was emptier, more old-fashioned and behind the times, more lonely—surprisingly empty and behind the times and lonely.

The daily mails became matters of intense interest and expectation. Albert wrote regularly and of course well and entertainingly. He described the life at the camp where he and the other recruits were training, a camp vastly different from the enormous military towns built later on for housing and training the drafted men. He liked the life pretty well, he wrote, although it was hard and a fellow had precious little opportunity to be lazy. Mistakes, too, were unprofitable for the maker. Captain Lote's eye twinkled when he read that.

Later on he wrote that he had been made a corporal and his grandmother, to whom a major general and a corporal were of equal rank, rejoiced much both at home and in church after meeting was over and friends came to hear the news. Mrs. Ellis declared herself not surprised. It was the Robert Penfold in him coming out, so she said.

A month or two later one of Albert's letters contained an interesting item of news. In the little spare time which military life afforded him he continued to write verse and stories. Now a New York publisher, not one of the most prominent but a reputable and enterprising one, had written him suggesting the collecting of his poems and their publication in book form. The poet himself was, naturally, elated.

“Isn't it splendid!” he wrote. “The best part of it, of course, is that he asked to publish, I did not ask him. Please send me my scrapbook and all loose manuscript. When the book will come out I'm sure I don't know. In fact it may never come out, we have not gotten as far as terms and contracts yet, but I feel we shall. Send the scrapbook and manuscript right away, PLEASE.”

They were sent. In his next letter Albert was still enthusiastic.

“I have been looking over my stuff,” he wrote, “and some of it is pretty good, if you don't mind my saying so. Tell Grandfather that when this book of mine is out and selling I may be able to show him that poetry making isn't a pauper's job, after all. Of course I don't know how much it will sell—perhaps not more than five or ten thousand at first—but even at ten thousand at, say, twenty-five cents royalty each, would be twenty-five hundred dollars, and that's something. Why, Ben Hur, the novel, you know, has sold a million, I believe.”

Mrs. Snow and Rachel were duly impressed by this prophecy of affluence, but Captain Zelotes still played the skeptic.

“A million at twenty-five cents a piece!” exclaimed Olive. “Why, Zelotes, that's—that's an awful sight of money.”

Mental arithmetic failing her, she set to work with a pencil and paper and after a strenuous struggle triumphantly announced that it came to two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

“My soul and body!” she cried. “Two hundred and fifty thousand DOLLARS! My SOUL, Zelotes! Suppose—only suppose Albert's book brought him in as much as that!”

Her husband shook his head. “I can't, Olive,” he said, without looking up from his newspaper. “My supposer wouldn't stand the strain.”

“But it might, Zelotes, it MIGHT. Suppose it did, what would you say then?”

The captain regarded her over the top of the Transcript. “I shouldn't say a word, Olive,” he answered, solemnly. “I should be down sick by the time it got up as far as a thousand, and anything past two thousand you could use to buy my tombstone with. . . . There, there, Mother,” he added, noticing the hurt look on her face, “don't feel bad. I'm only jokin'. One of these days Al's goin' to make a nice, comf'table livin' sellin' lumber and hardware right here in South Harniss. I can SEE that money in the offin'. All this million or two that's comin' from poetry and such is out of sight in the fog. It may be there but—humph! well, I KNOW where Z. Snow and Co. is located.”

Olive was not entirely placated. “I must say I think you're awful discouragin' to the poor boy, Zelotes,” she said. Her husband put down his paper.

“No, no, I ain't, Mother,” he replied, earnestly. “At least I don't mean to be. Way I look at it, this poetry-makin' and writin' yarns and that sort of stuff is just part of the youngster's—er—growin' up, as you might say. Give him time he'll grow out of it, same as I cal'late he will out of this girl business, this—er—Madel—humph—er—ahem. . . . Looks like a good day to-morrow, don't it.”

He pulled up suddenly, and with considerable confusion. He had kept the news of his grandson's infatuation and engagement even from his wife. No one in South Harniss knew of it, no one except the captain. Helen Kendall knew, but she was in Boston.

Rachel Ellis picked up the half knitted Red Cross mitten in her lap. “Well, I don't know whether he's right or you are, Cap'n Lote,” she said, with a sigh, “but this I do know—I wish this awful war was over and he was back home again.”

That remark ended the conversation. Olive resumed her own knitting, seeing it but indistinctly. Her husband did not continue his newspaper reading. Instead he rose and, saying something about cal'latin' he would go for a little walk before turning in, went out into the yard.

But the war did not end, it went on; so too did the enlisting and training. In the early summer Albert came home for a two days' leave. He was broader and straighter and browner. His uniform became him and, more than ever, the eyes of South Harniss's youthful femininity, native or imported, followed him as he walked the village streets. But the glances were not returned, not in kind, that is. The new Fosdick home, although completed, was not occupied. Mrs. Fosdick had, that summer, decided that her duties as mover in goodness knows how many war work activities prevented her taking her “usual summer rest.” Instead she and Madeline occupied a rented villa at Greenwich, Connecticut, coming into town for meetings of all sorts. Captain Zelotes had his own suspicions as to whether war work alone was the cause of the Fosdicks' shunning of what was to have been their summer home, but he kept those suspicions to himself. Albert may have suspected also, but he, too, said nothing. The censored correspondence between Greenwich and the training camp traveled regularly, and South Harniss damsels looked and longed in vain. He saw them, he bowed to them, he even addressed them pleasantly and charmingly, but to him they were merely incidents in his walks to and from the post-office. In his mind's eye he saw but one, and she, alas, was not present in the flesh.

Then he returned to the camp where, later on, Captain Zelotes and Olive visited him. As they came away the captain and his grandson exchanged a few significant words.

“It is likely to be almost any time, Grandfather,” said Albert, quietly. “They are beginning to send them now, as you know by the papers, and we have had the tip that our turn will be soon. So—”

Captain Lote grasped the significance of the uncompleted sentence.

“I see, Al,” he answered, “I see. Well, boy, I—I—Good luck.”

“Good luck, Grandfather.”

That was all, that and one more handclasp. Our Anglo-Saxon inheritance descends upon us in times like these. The captain was silent for most of the ride to the railroad station.

Then followed a long, significant interval during which there were no letters from the young soldier. After this a short reassuring cablegram from “Somewhere in France.” “Safe. Well,” it read and Olive Snow carried it about with her, in the bosom of her gown, all that afternoon and put it upon retiring on her bureau top so that she might see it the first thing in the morning.

Another long interval, then letters, the reassuring but so tantalizingly unsatisfactory letters we American families were, just at that time, beginning to receive. Reading the newspapers now had a personal interest, a terrifying, dreadful interest. Then the packing and sending of holiday boxes, over the contents of which Olive and Rachel spent much careful planning and anxious preparation. Then another interval of more letters, letters which hinted vaguely at big things just ahead.

Then no letter for more than a month.

And then, one noon, as Captain Zelotes returned to his desk after the walk from home and dinner, Laban Keeler came in and stood beside that desk.

The captain, looking up, saw the little bookkeeper's face. “What is it, Labe?” he asked, sharply.

Laban held a yellow envelope in his hand.

“It came while you were gone to dinner, Cap'n,” he said. “Ben Kelley fetched it from the telegraph office himself. He—he said he didn't hardly want to take it to the house. He cal'lated you'd better have it here, to read to yourself, fust. That's what he said—yes, yes—that's what 'twas, Cap'n.”

Slowly Captain Zelotes extended his hand for the envelope. He did not take his eyes from the bookkeeper's face.

“Ben—Ben, he told me what was in it, Cap'n Lote,” faltered Laban. “I—I don't know what to say to you, I don't—no, no.”

Without a word the captain took the envelope from Keeler's fingers, and tore it open. He read the words upon the form within.

Laban leaned forward.

“For the Lord sakes, Lote Snow,” he cried, in a burst of agony, “why couldn't it have been some darn good-for-nothin' like me instead—instead of him? Oh, my God A'mighty, what a world this is! WHAT a world!”

Still Captain Zelotes said nothing. His eyes were fixed upon the yellow sheet of paper on the desk before him. After a long minute he spoke.

“Well,” he said, very slowly, “well, Labe, there goes—there goes Z. Snow and Company.”