Sweet land of liberty,
Of thee I sing!”
The girl sang, and the grimy, tired men, listening, felt, each one, something that had been hard softening inside of him, something catch in his throat, a contraction around the eyes. Eric watched, well pleased.
“Will you all join in the second verse?” he spoke.
Again the girl lifted the strong and sweet tones, and into them were gathered, following, not obscuring the volume of her voice, half a thousand voices of men, rolling sweet thunder through the buildings where only the hum of machinery, on other days, filled the air.
“It’s good dope. It works to a charm,” Eric commented silently, as the big music ended and the ranks of men stood touched, open-souled, ready for an impression.
He lifted himself to the running-board of the car and the one halting step laid a claim on every man there before he said a word. This chap could not fight; fate had tied him with lameness, but he was doing the best he could for his country. One read his speeches every day in the papers. His sister looked at him, proud of his height and beauty and finished accent, and the straight, strong English which came from his lips, proudest of all of an intangible something which she felt, and which all these men felt, the secret of the charm of young Eric Mannering. It was an unphrased assertion that he and they were brothers in a cause so large that all differences of caste were straws on an ocean. Eric Mannering, the sixth, grandson of an ambassador, great-grandson of a governor, with his air of race, his speech of breeding, cared most to be what all these workmen were—American. He talked as an American to Americans, and he talked from an absolute sincerity, and the trained brain and speech which were vehicles for his words were good, to him, because they might serve the cause of America. By some force of reaction both the Mannering children were democrats, and as the brother spoke the sister approved. Yet she did not listen intelligently at first. Eric was saying things about a good investment, four per cent only, but safe as the granite hills. A good investment. It did not interest her. She was not going to buy bonds. She was going to New York to learn to sing, to make a fortune with her voice. But listen—Eric was talking about—the flag. Still shaken with the thrill of leading those five hundred deep voices, shaken with the tremendous meaning of the words she had sung, still startled with that unexpected wind which had swept her upward into the colors against the sky, as Eric spoke she caught her breath and listened. And behold his words were a bugle-call. This was what the papers meant by Eric’s power of stirring audiences. Rebellious, half angry, she realized that he was stirring her. The papers had been full of the patriotic duty of buying Liberty Bonds; she knew that public men were urging the people, rich and poor, to put their savings into the loan, to help the country raise money to use for the war. The campaign left her cold. She had saved fifteen hundred dollars in two strenuous years for a purpose. She meant to use it for that purpose. She had no intention of side-tracking any of it in Liberty Bonds. She was clear about that. But, listen. Eric in that appealing voice of his, whose unconscious power came, she thought always, from the long suffering of his lameness, was talking about the country—our country—America. The land about which she and the five hundred men had been singing, America needed their money, Eric was saying, for her very life. The girl listened. She was going to New York; that was settled; she hoped Eric would influence these men to put their savings into Liberty Bonds; it was good; it was public-spirited; people ought to do it, probably, but not she. She had a fixed purpose, and it would be silly to let it go. The girl was tenacious. Not for one speech of Eric’s would she change her two years’ decision. Yet a seed of discomfort was springing in her mind. Eric’s voice, with its sincerity, its throb of old pain, flowed on.
“Do you realize, men, what it means that the country shall have money to carry on this war? Suppose you lived in a street at the end of which was a dangerous river. Suppose you lived two doors from the wall which guarded that river. Suppose the river was high and threatening to break through, and the family next door was tired out building up the wall. Suppose it was certain that if the river broke, all your city would be destroyed. Would you or wouldn’t you drop work and play and turn anything, everything, into material to build up that wall? The river is Germany, the house next door is England and France—the Allies. The wall is mostly England’s fleet. It’s England’s fleet that has protected us from invasion for three years. As sure as we are here to-day, just so surely Germany will invade America if she can starve out England and make her give up that fleet. We are all nestling behind England’s fleet. We’ve got to see that England isn’t starved; we’ve got to help her fight. She deserves it of us if we were in no peril at all, because she has fought our battle for three years—but we’re in deadly peril. This is our cause—America’s. Our government has got to have money to feed England and to care for our soldiers who are going across—now—to fight for us. It is for our own boys, our good American flesh and blood that the government asks you to buy these bonds. So that they will not be cold and hungry, and short of guns and ammunition to do our fighting. Let us—who cannot go——”
Eric’s voice faltered, and the girl felt the shock of sympathy through the audience like a blow. He cleared his throat and smiled boyishly.
“We who cannot go and fight for dear America—for the high mountains and the broad rivers and the cheerful towns, and the big, strong, generous people whom we love as our own heart’s blood—we’ll do our part here with a rush and a good-will like an irresistible flood; we’ll buy this Liberty Loan with a surplus over, that will be like a great shout to Germany that America will take care of her own—that America is going to win!”