Lakin jumped to the truck and shook his fist in their faces. “Cheer, damn you, cheer!” he bawled.... And they cheered.
From that day in Detroit a Waite Volunteer was a man apart; he was different, and conscious of his difference. He was a picked man; he was working, not for wages, but for the flag, and he carried himself with a pride of his own.
“Where d’you work?” a stranger would ask.
“Who? Me?... I’m one of Waite’s men.” Which stood for something and came to mean much.... And of all of them, Potter Waite was proudest. In the years of his life had been no day like this day, nor would be again.... He had found an hour of happiness.
CHAPTER XXIII
Fred la Mothe was giving a party; not a large party, but one which Fred promised himself should be memorable. It was a dual celebration.
“I’m pulling a party at the Tuller to-night,” he told Potter Waite over the telephone. “Double-barreled. To celebrate my birthday and my election as secretary of dad’s concern. Dad admits I’ve come of age; says nobody comes of age until he’s twenty-eight, no matter what the statute in that case made and provided believes. He’s giving me a wad of stock and making me go to work. I guess I’m going to. So this is a farewell performance. Just a dozen of the fellows. You’ll be there?”
“What’s the use?” Potter said. “I’m cold sober these days.”
“Come and watch the rest of us.... Sort us out when it’s time to go home and see that we don’t bust in on the wrong families. There’ll be a taxi for every man.... And I’m planning to shoot off a cabaret stunt that will make Broadway look like a country lane.”
“Nothing doing, Fred.”