“P.S.2. How is my soldier boy getting along? Poor kid! I expect he is finding it a lot different from Broadway with money in your pocket.”
About this time the Weeping Scion was finding things very different, indeed, from Broadway, having been shifted to a specially wet and muddy section of France; and was taking them as he found them. That is to say, he had learned the prime lesson of war.
“And he’s been made corporal,” announced the Little Red Doctor with satisfaction.
“That sounds encouraging,” remarked the Bonnie Lassie. “How did it happen?”
“He went over on one of the ‘flu ships,’ and when the epidemic began to mow ’em down there was a kind of panic. From what I can make out, the Scion kept his head and his nerve, and made good. A corporal’s stripes aren’t much, but they’re something.”
Better was to come. There was high triumph in the Little Red Doctor’s expression when he came to my bench with the glad tidings of young David’s promotion to a sergeantcy.
“While it’s very gratifying,” I remarked, “it doesn’t seem to me an epoch-making event.”
“Doesn’t it!” retorted my friend. “That’s because of your abysmal military ignorance, Dominie. Let me tell you how it is in our army. A fellow can get himself made a captain by pull, or a major by luck, or a colonel by desk-work, or a general by having a fine martial figure, but to get yourself made a sergeant, by Gosh, you’ve got to show the stuff. You’ve got to be a man. You’ve got to have—”
“Are you going to tell her?” interrupted the Bonnie Lassie who had been sent for to share the news.
The Little Red Doctor fell suddenly grave. “She’s another matter,” he said. “I don’t think I shall.”