The Brighton Boys at Château-Thierry
[CHAPTER I]
Overheard
You’re just plain scared, I guess.”
“You’re just plain wrong. Anyway, people in glass shanties shouldn’t throw rocks. I don’t see you trying to play soldier.” The last speaker, a tall lad who sat nearest the window in the rear seat of a crowded railroad car seemed exasperated by the uncomplimentary suggestion of the boy beside him, a short, heavy-set, curly-headed fellow, who looked even more youthful than his sixteen years. His handsome face lighted up with a smile when he spoke; evidently there was but little enmity back of his teasing.
“If I were a telegraph pole and had your gray hairs, Stapley, you can bet your number nines I’d be in camp. But they won’t take kids.”
“That’s right, Richards; they won’t, unless a fellow’s dad signs his consent. My dad won’t do it. So kindly apologize, will you? My gray hairs deserve it; I’m a year older than you are, you know. Go on; I’m listening.”