She came upon a gathering in front of Dan’s store—she had wanted to go inside to buy some trifle and recall the atmosphere of the old days, even if Dan’s desk was now locked and deserted, the days when a willful girl used to dance in and call “Cohoo” up at the young proprietor. But there was a platform in front of the showcases and women were sitting on it, all of them in uniforms. They had a barrel for a table, a pitcher of water and glasses, and pamphlets which they flung out into the crowd at intervals. Boy Scouts were standing in line and singing lustily the doughboy favorite, while a small person also in uniform directed them with wild gestures:
Oh, there was a little hen and she had a wooden leg,
The best little hen that ever laid an egg,
And she laid more eggs than any hen on the farm—
And another little drink won’t do us any harm—
As the crowd cheered, the small directress turned to face them and speak in a shrill, excited voice about the need for funds, lapsing into slang when other superlative failed her, striding up and down, her soldier hat on one side and her hair dishevelled. It was Lorraine Birge! Thurley felt as if the world were approaching an end as she discovered the identity of the speaker. Beside Lorraine were Josie Donaldson, Hazel Mitchell and presently Cora Spooner appeared to play an uncertain trombone solo, while a queer youth in white flannels and a dangling eye glass began passing the hat—it was Oweyne Pringle of the art shoppe!
He gurgled his delight when he recognized Thurley. “You’ll have to sing for us—the crowd will be twice as generous ... oh, do, it will please Mrs. Birge.”
“Tell Mrs. Birge I will wait for her after the meeting.” Thurley weakly dropped the gold piece she had intended for the boy into the offered hat.
After the collection and another shower of pamphlets, Lorraine and her young Coldstream Guards marched off the platform to tack up placards asking for farmerettes and speakerettes to be pressed into service. Then Lorraine dashed over to Thurley—nothing left of the timid little person with a saddish look in her dove-colored eyes. She approached Thurley as hail-fellow well-met, holding out her hand cordially:
“Well, Thurley, you’ve stolen a march on us. You would have been dragged up here to sing if I’d seen you ... isn’t it glorious?” She paused as if uncertain whether it was the war, the audience or Thurley’s frock.