“Whar’s Davy?” asked old Absalom Gannt. “Someone go git Davy. We got to look into this thing.”
Before David Joslin could be found, the two women had turned in at Granny Williams’ home. Huddling like fowls, all the women had taken to cover at the alarm. The street was empty save for men and boys.
“What’s all this about, Davy?” asked old Absalom, when presently Joslin joined them in the street. “Is our Government in this here?”
“Yes,” said David Joslin. “It’s war! Our country’s in it. That’s what it says.”
Someone handed him a newspaper, and he read its headlines hurriedly, interpreting for them as he did so. These men well enough knew what war was, or had been—the traditions of their fathers told them. The faces about him were serious now; no light remark was ventured by any. Their eyes shifted from the gaunt, lean face of David Joslin, as he read, to this little fluttering emblem which stood driven in the mountain airs.
“They’ve fired on our Flag!” said David Joslin to them at last. “Our women and our children have been killed by these—the enemy.”
A low murmur, amounting to a growl in sum, rose from the group of men. Silently they gathered more closely about him.
“Shot at our flag?” said old Absalom Gannt—“an’ wimmern and children—that kain’t be! That hain’t right.”
“But it’s true,” said David Joslin. “We’ll have to fight.”