"It's chops," he said—"and—and hot biscuits."
"And radishes from the garden, and buttermilk and clover honey and raspberries, and—let me see—"
"Let's go!" said the soldier.
"Then you can tell us all about that war," said the invalid as with groans he raised his bulk from the wicker chair.
"What war?" asked Wilbur.
He spent the afternoon in the little room, where he would glance up to find the small, barefoot boy staring at him in wonder; and out in the Penniman front yard, where the summer flowers bloomed. These surroundings presented every assurance of safety, yet his restless, wide-sweeping gaze was full of caution, especially after the aëroplane went over. At the first ominous note of its droning he had broken for cover. After that, in spite of himself, he would be glancing uneasily at the Plummer place across the road. This was fronted by a hedge of cypress—ideal machine-gun cover. But not once during the long afternoon was he shot at. He brought out and repaired the lawn mower, oiled its rusted parts and ran it gayly over the grass. At suppertime, when Dave Cowan came, he was wetting the shorn sward with spray from a hose.
"Back?" said Dave, peering as at a bit of the far cosmos flung in his way.
"Back," said his son.
They shook hands.