“‘He is one of those who will change,’ I said.
“‘Giger!’
“There was no response. ‘He’ll be all right when they call the absentees,’ I said.
“‘Gordon!’
“‘No!’
“‘Griesheimer!’
“‘Aye!’
“‘Hear them?’ I asked. The H’s came next, and the old man, still fumbling with his chin, and without turning his head began to talk:
“‘Baldwin,’ he said, ‘you’re right. I am a poor man. I have a wife an’ eight children. To-morrow I’m goin’ back home, an’ o’ Monday I’m goin’ to hunt a job—hunt a job in the harves’ field. I’ve worked hard all my life. I ’spect to work hard all my life. I’ll keep on huntin’ jobs in the harves’ fields. I’ll probably die in the poor-house. I’ll be buried in the potter’s field. God knows what’ll become of that woman and them children.’
“He nodded his head as in assent to an indisputable proposition, and his eyes widened as if in fright. They were looking down the barren years before him, and I felt in that moment glad of my power to brighten them.