“Still,” said the girl, “there will be some friends anyhow, and the very fact that this is the Dorfield Regiment should arouse our loyal enthusiasm. Why, I’ve followed them all through the war, and somehow this practice has almost made it seem that the whole Dorfield Regiment is a sort of personal possession.”
“I feel much the same way,” said Colonel Hathaway, composedly turning over the Dorfield Gazette. “This is not a delightful country to demobilize in—if we should judge by the Civil War, in which I was somewhat more interested. The regiment may not be free to disorganize for a week, or a month, according to the whim of the War Department.”
“But they’ll enjoy the recreation and the freedom from long marches even if they’re kept here a long time,” returned Mary Louise, “and their pay is the same as when at war. The boys who live here can visit their homes every day, and there may be only a few who come from any great distance. According to the papers, the Dorfield boys saw some real fighting in France.”
“Yes, but new faces in the line are likely to be few,” prophesied the Colonel. “Luckily, not many Dorfield boys lie buried in the French battlefields.”
“What will become of the new men, Grandpa Jim?” asked the girl.
“Well, they will either be furnished money to take them home—second class—or they may obtain positions in or near Dorfield. If there are not too many, they will all get positions here. Many of the merchants I have talked with are already grumbling because ‘help’ is scarce.”
“Let’s go down to the depot and see the trains come in,” suggested Mary Louise. “We’ve none of our kith and kin to greet, but some we know and can shake hands with. Besides, some of those substitutes may live far away and don’t know where to go. They may need friends, or a home, or may have been wounded, and have no one here to care for them. I’m sure we can be of use in some way. We are Dorfield’s own people and must show our appreciation of Dorfield’s own soldiers.”
The Colonel reflected for a time. “During the Civil War there wasn’t another Hathaway in the whole army,” he mused; “yet I had my duty to do, and did it. You know my utmost trial during the Great World War has been my inability to take part in it in any way. A soldier is a soldier always, and here I am on the back shelf unable to help my country in its day of need. Beside being outside of the age limit I haven’t a relative to take my place.” This had been the old gentleman’s grievance for many months. He fumbled with his cane a few moments and then said, “But get your automobile out, and we’ll go down and give the soldiers the welcome they deserve.”
“It’s too rainy and muddy for the auto to-day,” said Mary Louise, “and I don’t want to punish the dear little car by a mud bath. But we’ll take our umbrellas and try to find one of those substitutes who are stranded here, without friends or regular occupation, wondering what to do with themselves.”
“I hope, my dear, you have no such idea as taking one of those persons—what do you call the fellows?—‘substitutes,’ into our family, even as a servant?”