Along in April, Gadsby sat finishing his morning toast as a boy, rushing in, put a "Post" on his lap with a wild, boyish gasp of:—"My gosh, Mayor Gadsby, Look!!" and Gadsby saw a word about a foot high. It was W—A—R. Lady Gadsby saw it also, slowly sinking into a chair. At that instant both Nancy and Kathlyn burst frantically in, Nancy lugging Baby Lillian, now almost two, and a big load for so small a woman, Nancy gasping out:—
"Daddy!! Must Bill and Julius and Frank and John,——"
Gadsby put down his "Post" and, pulling Nancy down onto his lap, said:—
"Nancy darling, Bill and Julius and Frank and John must. Old Glory is calling, baby, and no Branton Hills boy will balk at that call. It's awful, but it's a fact, now."
Lady Gadsby said nothing, but Nancy and Kathlyn saw an ashy pallor on that matronly brow; and Gadsby going out without waiting for his customary kiss.
For what you might call an instant, Branton Hills, in blank, black gloom, stood stock still. But not for long. Days got to flashing past, with that awful sight of girls, out to lunch, saying:—
"Four from our shop; and that big cotton mill has forty-six who will go."
With Virginia saying:—
"About all that our boys talk about is uniforms, pay, transportation, army corps, divisions, naval squadrons, and so on."
An occasional Branton Hills politician thought that it "might blow out in a month or two;" but your Historian knows that it didn't; all of that "blowing" consisting of blasts from that military clarion, calling for mobilization.