When Dick went in, there were a dozen villagers and countrymen lounging in the room, Mr. Blair was sorting the mail, and Black Mayo was perched on the counter, reading the news in Mr. Blair’s paper the only daily that came to The Village.
“The British are holding Vimy Ridge,� he said.
“What about Congress and army plans?� asked Red Mayo.
“Congress is still discussing, discussing. Why doesn’t it go ahead and put a draft bill in shape? The President’s right; that’s the way to raise an army.�
“Hey, Black Mayo! Here’s a letter for Polly,� said Mr. Blair. “And here are two letters for Mr. Carl Schmidt.� He looked around.
The man who lived at the old Tolliver place came forward. “I guess they are for me,� he said, “from somebody that did not know my name; it’s Smith, good American Charley Smith.�
“Carl Schmidt; that’s a queer-sounding name. What is it?� asked Mr. Jones, a stout, red-faced countryman.
“It is a German name,� Black Mayo said crisply.
“My father did from Germany come,� the man who called himself Smith said hastily, darting an angry glance at Black Mayo and then looking around without meeting any one’s eyes. “He was sensible, and he did come to America. I was here born. I am an American citizen.�
“I’d hate to be one of them low-down Germans,� said Pete Walthall, taking a chew of tobacco.