The captain was not offended. He waved the apologies aside.
“So you think it's worth while my fightin' it out, do you, Labe?” he asked, reflectively.
“I—I think it's what you ought to do anyhow, whether it's worth while or not. The whole world's fightin'. Uncle Sam's fightin'. Al was fightin'. You're fightin'. I'm fightin'. It's a darn sight easier to quit, a darn sight, but—but Al didn't quit. And—and we mustn't—not if we can help it,” he added, drawing a hand across his forehead.
His agitation seemed to surprise Captain Zelotes. “So all hands are fightin', are they, Labe,” he observed. “Well, I presume likely there's some truth in that. What's your particular fight, for instance?”
The little bookkeeper looked at him for an instant before replying. The captain's question was kindly asked, but there was, or so Laban imagined, the faintest trace of sarcasm in its tone. That trace decided him. He leaned across the desk.
“My particular fight?” he repeated. “You—you want to know what 'tis, Cap'n Lote? All right, all right, I'll tell you.”
And without waiting for further questioning and with, for him, surprisingly few repetitions, he told of his “enlistment” to fight John Barleycorn for the duration of the war. Captain Zelotes listened to the very end in silence. Laban mopped his forehead with a hand which shook much as it had done during the interview with Albert in the room above the shoe store.
“There—there,” he declared, in conclusion, “that's my fight, Cap'n Lote. Al and I, we—we kind of went into it together, as you might say, though his enlistin' was consider'ble more heroic than mine—yes indeed, I should say so . . . yes, yes, yes. But I'm fightin' too . . . er . . . I'm fightin' too.”
Captain Zelotes pulled his beard.
“How's the fight goin', Labe?” he asked, quietly.