The next morning, while the two men were at breakfast, Traile was called to the telephone. He returned after five minutes, his face radiant.
“ ’T’s all right,” he said. “Commander of Legion called me up. General got in two hours ago. Already conferred with governor, city commissioner, police department, everything else conferrable. Police department transferred to the colonel, commanding officer at Fort Crook. Already taken control. All arrests to be military arrests—oh, boy! that means us! General to see Legion members at ten this morning.”
“And the mayor?”
“Damned if I didn’t forget to ask!” Traile looked at Stacey remorsefully. “You really do feel badly about the mayor, don’t you?” he said. “You’re a—a good sort, Captain, if you don’t mind my impertinence in saying so,” he concluded impetuously.
“No,” said Stacey quietly, “I’m not a good sort. I’m only mad,—that’s all; and I’m not forgetting why. You’re ten years younger than I, Traile. You’re rather enjoying the lark.”
“All the same,” the other insisted soberly, “you are sorry about the mayor, as well as mad. I’ll go call up the hospital.”
“Better,” he said, when he came back. “Improving slowly.”
Stacey nodded.
When they set out for the Legion meeting they left behind them the four N. C. O.’s, in civilian dress, sitting placidly in the library.
“You know,” observed Traile exultantly, as he set his car plunging down the driveway, “it’s not at all a bad thing the general couldn’t get here till to-day. Because all the conglomerate skunks of this town didn’t get on to the fact that we meant business. They’ve had one whole joyful day with nothing doing but a few troops marching around, and they’ve fairly laid themselves open with bragging about what they did Sunday night. One long bright day of practically handing out their names on a platter. Scores and scores of ’em on the lists.”