"Now, don't start that; listen. It's in the new Y. M. C. A. Hall. I know you haven't got any clothes, if that's what you want to say, and I don't care a hang about your clothes. I don't ask you to blow in with the rest of them and sit in the audience," he went on hurriedly. "But just stroll around after everything's started and the lights are down. They couldn't see you—they won't notice you. Just stand in back."
"They got no use for me; they——"
"This is between you and me, old man; nobody else has got anything to do with it. Go down to Mrs. What's-her-name's——"
"O'Connor's," said Tom.
"Go down there and wash up, if you want to—I don't care. Only promise me you'll come around. I want you to see me make a show of myself. You'll have a good laugh—you old grouch," he added, with sudden good humor, "and after it's over we'll go up to my house and have a good long talk."
"I've often passed your house," said Tom.
"I'm going down to camp on a milk train about two A. M. This may be the last chance for us to see each other," Roscoe still spoke hurriedly; "they're sending troops across every week, Tom."
"I know they are."
"When I left you up on that mountain, Tom, I promised to come right back and register; and I did it, didn't I?"
"I told you nobody'd ever find out about that——"