II
Queer things happen in life. Just beyond Buffalo that night, the train newsboy came through, crying the evening dailies. The papers were black with headlines. The big munitions plant at Russellville, New Jersey, engaged in making shells for the British government, had blown up that afternoon, killing hundreds, destroying the town. The conflagration was still burning, with shells exploding in the vitals of the flames like a small battle transferred to this side the Atlantic.
Nathan read the account of the disaster like a hundred million others that evening, thinking “Such is war!”
He found my wire when he reached The Morrison in Chicago. I thought he should know; the gypsy trail of the world spread before him now with many mystic and perhaps romantic twists and turns yet to be negotiated. I worded my telegram thus:
MILDRED RICHARDS IN LIST RUSSELLVILLE DEAD IS MILLY FOLKS JUST RECEIVED WORD PLUMB HAD TAKEN JOB SHIPYARDS near-by IS UNHURT NO TRACE MILLY FOUND BEST WISHES PLEASANT TRIP MOTHER WIFE AND SELF
WILLIAM.