"Sit down on this wall, boy. I want to talk to you."
"All right. Shoot!"
"Now look, Allan. If this war should last until you grow up, just think of how many thousands of troops it would kill. How many grand, good lads it would put right out of this world."
"Gosh! That's so, ain't it! I didn't think of guys dyin'."
"But a man has to think of that, Allan. And you will, as you grow up. My two big sons just put off on that big troop train. I don't know how long Bill and Julius will stay away. Your big cannon might go Boom! and hit Bill or Julius. Do you know Frank Morgan, Paul Johnson and John Smith? All right; that big cannon might hit that trio, too. Nobody can say who a cannon will hit, Allan. Now, you go right on through Grammar School, and grow up into a big strong man, and don't think about war;" and Gadsby, standing and gazing far off to Branton Hills' charming hill district, thought: "I think that will bust up a wild young ambition!"
But that kid, turning back, sang out:—
"Say!! If this scrap stops, and a big war starts,—Aha, boy! You just watch Allan Banks! Son of Councilman Banks!!" and a small fist was pounding viciously on an also small bosom.
"By golly!" said Gadsby, walking away, "that's Tomorrow talking!"
* * * *
So now this history will drift along; along through days and months; days and months of that awful gnawing doubt; actually a paradox, for it was a "conscious coma;" mornings on which Branton Hills' icy blood shrank from looking at our city's "Post," for its casualty list was rapidly—too rapidly,—growing. Days and days of our girlhood and womanhood rolling thousands of long, narrow cotton strips; packing loving gifts from many a pantry; Nancy and Kathlyn thinking constantly of Frank and John; Lucy almost down and out from worrying about Paul; Kathlyn knowing just how Julius is missing his Hall of Natural History, and how its staff is praying for him; Nancy's radio shut down tight, for so much as a thought of Station KBH was as a thrust of a sword. Days. Days. Days of shouting orators, blaring bands, troops from far away pausing at our big railway station, as girls, going through long trains of cars, took doughnuts and hot drinks. In Gadsby's parlor window hung that famous "World War flag" of nothing but stars; nobody knowing at what instant a gold star would show upon it. A star for Bill; a star for Julius. Ah, Bill! Branton Hills' fop! Bill Gadsby now in an ill-fitting and un-stylish khaki uniform.