Then someone spoke. Someone who was eager to greet and hold any chance visitor. “Come in, Mary-Clare will be back soon. She never stays long.”
At that voice Northrup slammed the door behind him and strode across the space separating him from Larry Rivers!
Larry sat huddled in the chintz rocker, his crutch on the floor, his thin, idle hands clasped in his lap. He wore his uniform, poor fellow! It gave him a sense of dignity. His eyes, accustomed to the dimmer light, took in the situation first; he smiled nervously and waited.
Northrup in a moment grasped the essentials.
“So you’ve been over there, too?” was what he said. The angry gleam in his eyes softened. At least he and Rivers could speak the common language of comrades-in-arms.
“Yes, I’ve been there,” Larry answered. “When I came back, I had nowhere else to go. Northrup, you wonder why I am here. Good God! How I’ve wanted to tell you.”
“Well, I’m here, too, Rivers. Life has been stronger than either of us. We’ve both drifted back.”
Larry turned away his head. It was then that Northrup caught the full significance of what life had done to Rivers!
“Northrup, let me talk to you. Let me plunge in––before any one comes. They won’t let me talk. It’s like being in prison. It’s hell. I’ve thought of you, you’re the only one who can really help. And I dared not even ask for you!”