"Why, there's nothing wrong with him that I'm aware of, sir. I spoke to Nan after services last Sunday and she read me a portion of his last letter. He was quite well at that time."
"W-wh-where is he, Andrew?"
"Somewhere in France. He's not allowed to tell."
"France? Good God, Andrew, not France!"
"Why not, may I ask? Of course he's in France. He enlisted as a private shortly after war was declared. Dirty Dan quit his job and went with him. They went over with the Fifth Marines. Do you mean to tell me this is news to you?" he added, frankly amazed.
"I do," old Hector mumbled brokenly. "Oh, Andrew man, this is terrible, terrible. I canna stand it, man." He sat down and covered his face with his trembling old hands.
"Why can't you? You wouldn't want him to sit at home and be a slacker, would you? And you wouldn't have a son of yours wait until the draft board took him by the ear and showed him his duty, would you?"
"If he's killed I'll nae get over it." The Laird commenced to weep childishly.
"Well, better men or at least men as fine, are paying that price for citizenship, Hector McKaye."
"But his wife, man? He was married. 'Twas not expected of him—"