An odd irritation invaded him; he had a sudden impulse to stop his taxi and shout, “Fat-heads! Get into the game! Don’t you know the world’s on fire? Don’t you know what a hun really is? You’d better look out and get busy!”
Fifth Avenue irritated him––shops, hotels, clubs, motors, the well-dressed throngs began to exasperate him.
On a side street he caught a glimpse of his own place of business; and it almost nauseated him to remember old man Sharrow, and the walls hung with plans of streets and sewers and surveys and photographs; and his own yellow oak desk–––
“Good Lord!” he thought. “If the war ends, have I got to go back to that!–––”
The family were at breakfast when he walked in on them––only two––his father and mother.
In his mother’s arms he suddenly felt very young and subdued, and very glad to be there.
“Where the devil did you come from, Jim?” repeated his father, with twitching features and a grip on his son’s strong hand that he could not bring himself to loosen.
Yes, it was pretty good to get home, after all–– ... And he might not have come back at all. He realised it, now, in his mother’s arms, feeling very humble and secure.
His mother had realised it, too, in every waking hour since the day her only son had sailed at night––that had been the hardest!––at night––and at an unnamed hour of an unnamed day!––her only son––gone in the darkness–––