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Page 10
David Lance sat wondering. He was not due at the office till ten this
Saturday night and he was putting in a long and thorough wonder. About
the service in all its branches; about finance; about the new Liberty
Loan. First, how was he to stop being a peaceful reporter on the
_Daybreak_ and get into uniform; that wonder covered a class including
the army, navy and air-service, for he had been refused by all three; he
wondered how a small limp from apple-tree acrobatics at ten might be so
explained away that he might pass; reluctantly he wondered also about
the Y.M.C.A. But he was a fighting man _par excellence_. For him it
would feel like slacking to go into any but fighting service. Six feet
two and weighing a hundred and ninety, every ounce possible to be muscle
was muscle; easy, joyful twenty-four-year-old muscle which knew nothing
of fatigue. He was certain he would make a fit soldier for Uncle Sam,
and how, how he wanted to be Uncle Sam's soldier!
He was getting desperate. Every man he knew in the twenties and many a
one under and over, was in uniform; bitterly he envied the proud peace
in their eyes when he met them. He could not bear to explain things once
more as he had explained today to Tom Arnold and "Beef" Johnson, and
"Seraph" Olcott, home on leave before sailing for France. He had
suffered while they listened courteously and hurried to say that they
understood, that it was a shame, and that: "You'll make it yet, old
son." And they had then turned to each other comparing notes of camps.
It made little impression that he had toiled and sweated early and late
in this struggle to get in somewhere--army, navy, air-service--anything
to follow the flag. He wasn't allowed. He was still a reporter on the
_Daybreak_ while the biggest doings of humanity were getting done, and
every young son of America had his chance to help. With a strong,
tireless body aching for soldier's work, America, his mother, refused
him work. He wasn't allowed.
Lance groaned, sitting in his one big chair in his one small room. There
were other problems. A Liberty Loan drive was on, and where could he lay
hands on money for bonds? He had plunged on the last loan and there was
yet something to pay on the $200 subscription. And there was no one and
nothing to fall back on except his salary as reporter for the
_Daybreak._ His father had died when he was six, and his mother eight
years ago; his small capital had gone for his four years, at Yale. There
was no one--except a legend of cousins in the South. Never was any one
poorer or more alone. Yet he must take a bond or two. How might he hold
up his head not to fight and not to buy bonds. A knock at the door.
"Come in," growled Lance.
The door opened, and a picture out of a storybook stood framed and
smiling. One seldom sees today in the North the genuine old-fashioned
negro-woman. A sample was here in Lance's doorway. A bandanna of red and
yellow made a turban for her head; a clean brownish calico dress stood
crisply about a solid and waistless figure, and a fresh white apron
covered it voluminously in front; a folded white handkerchief lay,
fichu-wise, around the creases of a fat black neck; a basket covered
with a cloth was on her arm. She stood and smiled as if to give the
treat time to have its effect on Lance. "Look who's here!" was in large
print all over her. And she radiated peace and good-will.
Lance was on his feet with a shout. "Bless your fat heart, Aunt
Basha--I'm glad to see you," he flung at her, and seized the basket and
slung it half across the room to a sofa with a casualness, alarming to
Aunt Basha--christened Bathsheba seventy-five years ago, but "rightly
known," she had so instructed Lance, as "Aunt Basha."
"Young marse, don' you ruinate the washin', please sir," she adjured in
liquid tones.
"Never you mind. It's the last one you'll do for me," retorted Lance.
"Did I tell you you couldn't have the honor of washing for me anymore,
Aunt Basha?"
Aunt Basha was wreathed in smiles.
"Yassir, young marse. You tole me dat mo'n tree times befo', a'ready,
sir."
"Well--it's final this time. Can't stand your prices. I _can't_ stand
your exorbitant prices. Now what do you have the heart to charge for
dusting off those three old shirts and two and a half collars? Hey?"
Aunt Basha, entirely serene, was enjoying the game. "What does I
charges, sir? Fo' dat wash, which you slung 'round acrost de room, sir?
Well, sir, young marse, I charges fo' dollars 'n sev'nty fo' cents, sir,
dis week. Fo' dat wash."
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