At nine that evening he left. As we trudged over the road in the warm darkness of the summer night, he talked soberly of the dubious future.
He was not called until the following April, 1918. Twice that winter he came to Boston. Number 94 Charles Street had been dismantled. But the third-floor-back on Pinckney Street received him with an extra cot for bivouac.
... This should have been the longest chapter of all, and the best. I find that I cannot write it.
Only a postscript. I asked him for a picture of himself.
"What do you want," he inquired, "a painting?"
My ideas had been far more modest:
"Beggars should not be choosers. I will take what I can get: painting, photograph, snap-shot: and be thankful."
"What size would you like?"