Jeremy cursed again, wildly and extravagantly. “You’re trying to make me out yellow!”
“Boss, your nerves are n’t all they ought to be. Why don’t you drop in on your doc?”
“I’m going right from here to Doc Summerfield’s.”
“Ay-ah? You are feeling shaky, eh?”
“No. I’m not. But I want to be sure that I’ll get through all right on the physical examination.”
“Ay-ah. I guess you’ll do—physically.” Andrew Galpin turned and left. His head was hanging. He looked like a man ashamed. Jeremy knew for whom he was ashamed. Again he cursed, and this time, himself. All the catchwords in the vocabulary of patriotism could not now exorcise that inner feeling of surrender, of desertion.
A figure emerged from a forgotten corner. It was Buddy Higman.
“I heard you,” said the boy in a lifeless voice. “Are you goin’ to quit?”
The final word flicked Jeremy on the raw. “I’m going to fight.”
“What’s goin’ to become of us?” said Buddy simply. Jeremy stared at him without consciously seeing the open, freckled face of the boy. What he saw was the letter of Marcia Ames in which she had committed Buddy to his care.