Tom took his own time in coming; he had stayed at the club to go over his lists—so he had told Crailey—with the General and old Bareaud. His company was almost complete, and Crailey had been the first to volunteer, to the dumfounding of Trumble, who had proceeded to drink his health again and again. But the lists could not detain Tom two hours, Crailey knew, and it was two hours since the new volunteers had sung “The Star Spangled Banner” over the last of the punch, and had left the club to Tom and the two old men. Only once or twice in that time had Crailey shifted his position, or altered the direction of his set gaze at nothing. But at last he rose, went to the window and, leaning far out, looked down the street toward the little clubhouse. Its lights were extinguished and all was dark up and down the street. Abruptly Crailey went back to the desk and blew out the candle, after which he sat down again in the same position. Twenty minutes later he heard Tom's step on the stair, coming up very softly. Crailey waited in silence until his partner reached the landing, then relit the candle.
“Tom,” he called. “Come in, please, I've been waiting for you.”
There was a pause before Tom answered from the hall:
“I'm very tired, Crailey. I think I'll go up to bed.”
“No,” said Crailey, “come in.”
The door was already open, but Tom turned toward it reluctantly. He stopped at the threshold and the two looked at each other.
“I thought you wouldn't come as long as you believed I was up,” said Crailey, “so I blew out the light. I'm sorry I kept you outside so long.”
“Crailey, I'm going away to-morrow,” the other began. “I am to go over and see the Governor and offer him this company, and to-night I need sleep, so please—”
“No,” interrupted Crailey quietly, “I want to know what you're going to do.”
“To do about what?”