The best and the last!
I should hate that Death bandaged my eyes and forebore,
And bade me creep past.”
At all events he would, in the figurative sense, die fighting to-morrow. He knew his mistakes now. If 298 he lived on he hoped to atone for them, but if he died he would go out without a whine.
And if he must die, there was one way that seemed preferable to others. The army would have none of him, as an officer, because he stood besmirched of honor. But he knew the stern temper of the mountaineers. They would rise in unanimous response to the call of arms. He could go with them, not with any insignia on his collar, but marching shoulder against shoulder into that red hell of Flanders and France, where a man might baptize himself, shrive himself, and die. And in dying they would leave a record behind them!
CHAPTER XXII
Down along the creekbeds back of Hemlock Mountain young Jimmy Litchfield, a son of old Uncle Jimmy, had been teaming with a well-boring outfit and his wagon had bogged down in deep mud. He had failed to extricate himself so he tramped three hard, steep miles and telephoned for an extra team. While he awaited deliverance he found himself irked and, to while away the time, set his drill down haphazard and began to bore.
It would be some hours before help arrived, and when he had worked a while he had forgotten all about help.