“You’ll get that thrill.”
“I wonder. We all seem to be pulling for ourselves: liberty, individualism, yes; but real nationalism—the thing that’s a religion—the thing you get over here—that makes it worth while to die.”
“Wait until we understand.”
Some one in the khaki of a volunteer ambulance hailed me.
“David Littledale, ’08. Remember me? Joe Hungerford. Heard you were on board. What luck!”
I turned to shake hands. It was the same Joe Hungerford of school and college days, lively and irrepressible, a pink and white complexion, a mischief-loving eye, a quick smile and a clear visage, incapable of wrong, deceit, subtleties, or an unnecessary mental operation,—a boy, as his nation was young.
“Who’d thought to run in on you, Big Dale? Glad to meet you, Mr. Brinsmade. You know my father—Sam Hungerford, of the Illinois Central? Quite a crowd on board. Say, do you think there is any chance of our sighting a submarine?”
“Same old Joe,” I said, laughing. “You wouldn’t feel anything if you were being led out to be shot.”
“The devil I wouldn’t.” But, in the midst of a retort, perceiving a familiar face below, he was off, with an exclamation: “Hello! If there isn’t Frangipani! See you later!”
“There’s your young America.”