"And we must have his portrait painted," she remarks, claspin' her hands excited as the happy thought strikes her.
The boys looked steady out of the window and managed to smother the smiles. I imagine they'd seen all sorts of mothers come to camp.
It's a lively little burg, Allentown, even if I didn't know it was on the map before. At the station you take a trolley that runs straight through the town and out to the fair grounds, where the camp is located. Goin' up the hill, you pass through the square and by the Soldiers' Monument. Say, it's some monument, too. Then out a long street lined with nice, comfortable-lookin' homes, until you get a glimpse of blue hills rollin' away as far as you can see, and there you are.
The boys piloted us past the guard at the gates, through a grove of trees, and left us at the information bureau, where a soldier wearin' shell-rimmed glasses listened patient while mother and sister both talked at once.
"Bliss? Just a moment," says he, reachin' for a card-index box. "Yes, ma'am. Wilfred Stanton. He's here."
"But where?" demands Mrs. Bliss.
"Why," says the soldier, "he's listed with the casuals just now. Quartered in the cow-barn."
"The—the cow-barn!" gasps Mrs. Bliss.
The soldier grins.
"It's over that way," says he, wavin' his hand. "Anyone will tell you."