Dad fell back on the hard pillow, again staring wide-eyed up at the bare rafters. The drink-longing had left him, driven out by a fifty-fold stronger yearning.
“To go to the front!” he muttered.
“That’s it,” encouraged Jimmie. “That’s the idea, Dad. Why don’t you?”
Dad sighed, the bright vision fading.
“I can’t, boy,” he said simply.
“Because—” began Jimmie with a queer shyness, “because you think maybe they wouldn’t take you back?”
“You’ve guessed it, son.”
Jimmie reached forward and patted the man’s cheek in rough sympathy.
“I know,” he answered. “It’s a rotten shame. But I’ve thought all that out, too. I got the idea to-night when Uncle Cephus was telling how a boy up at Cleveland ran away to the war—under another name.”
“Another name?” repeated Dad, a confused hope jumping into life within him.