Part 70 (1/2)

”But the rain--?”

”I like rain. I'm not sugar or salt.”

Bronson, much perturbed, called up Jean. ”The General's going out.”

”Oh, but he mustn't, Bronson.”

”I can't say 'mustn't' to him, Miss,” Bronson reported dismally.

”You'd better see what you can do--”

But when Jean arrived, the General was gone!

”We'll drive out through the country,” the old man had told his chauffeur, and had settled back among his cus.h.i.+ons, his cane by his side, his foot up on the opposite seat to relieve him of the weight.

And it was as he rode that he began to have a strange feeling about that foot which no longer walked or bore him lightly.

How he had marched in those bygone days! He remembered the first time he had tried to keep step with his fellows. The tune had been Yankee Doodle--with a fife and drum--and he was a raw young recruit in his queer blue uniform and visored cap--.

And how eager his feet had been, how strongly they had borne him, spurning the dust of the road--as they would bear him no more--.

There were men who envied him as he swept past them in the rain, men who felt that he had more than his share of wealth and ease, yet he would have made a glad exchange for the feet which took them where they willed.

He came at last to one of his old haunts, a small stone house on the edge of the Ca.n.a.l. From its wide porch he had often watched the slow boats go by, with men and women and children living in worlds bounded by weather-beaten decks. To-day in the rain there was a blur of lilac bushes along the tow path, but no boats were in sight; the Ca.n.a.l was a ruffled gray sheet in the April wind.

Lounging in the low-ceiled front room of the stone house were men of the type with whom he had once foregathered--men not of his cla.s.s or kind, but interesting because of their very differences--human derelicts who had welcomed him.

But now, for the first time he was not one of them. They eyed his elegances with suspicion--his fur coat, his gloves, his hat--the man whose limousine stood in front of the door was not one of them; they might beg of him, but they would never call him ”Brother.”

So, because his feet no longer carried him, and he must ride, he found himself cast out, as it were, by outcasts.

He ordered meat and drink for them, gave them money, made a joke or two as he limped among them, yet felt an alien. He watched them wistfully, seeing for the first time their sordidness, seeing what he himself had been, more sordid than any, because of his greater opportunities.

Sitting apart, he judged them, judged himself. If all the world were like these men, what kind of world would it be?

”Why aren't you fellows fighting?” he asked suddenly.

They stared at him. Grumbled. Why should they fight? One of them wept over it, called himself too old--.

But there were young men among them. ”For G.o.d's sake get out of this--let me help you get out.” The General stood up, leaned on his cane. ”Look here, I've done a lot of things in my time--things like this--” his arm swept out towards the table, ”and now I've only one good foot--the other will never be alive again. But you young chaps, you've got two good feet--to march. Do you know what that means, to march? Left, right, left, right and step out bravely--. Yankee Doodle and your heads up, flags flying? And you sit here like this?”

Two of the men had risen, young and strong. The General's cane pounded--he had their eyes! ”Left, right, left, right--all over the world men are marching, and you sit here--”

The years seemed to have dropped from him. His voice rang with a fire that had once drawn men after him. He had led a charge at Gettysburg, and his men had followed!

And these two men would follow him. He saw the dawn of their resolve in their faces. ”There's fine stuff in both of you,” he said, ”and the country needs you. Isn't it better to fight than to sit here? Get into my car and I'll take you down.”

”Aw, what's eatin' you,” one of the older men growled. ”What game's this? Recruitin'?”