The editor watched them cross the street with a look of loathing, muttering slowly beneath his breath:
"Oh, my country, what a problem—what a problem!"
He turned again to his desk and forgot his burden in the joy of work. He loved this work. It called for the best that's in the strongest man. It was a man's work for men. When he struck a blow he saw the dent of his hammer on the iron, and heard it ring to the limits of the state.
Dimly aware that some one had entered his room unannounced, he looked up, sprang to his feet and extended his hand in hearty greeting to a stalwart farmer who stood smiling into his face:
"Hello, MacArthur!"
"Hello, my captain! You know you weren't a major long enough for me to get used to it—and it sounds too old for you anyhow——"
"And how's the best sergeant that ever walloped a recruit?"
"Bully," was the hearty answer.
The young editor drew his old comrade in arms down into his chair and sat on the table facing him:
"And how's the wife and kids, Mac?"