It was just gettin' dusk as we piles out, and the first few yards I walked I felt like I was dressed in a divin' suit with a pair of lead boots on my feet. I saw Allen salute an officer, hand over the map, and heard him say something about Observer Martin wantin' to report sick. Then he steers me off toward the barracks, circles past' em, and leads me through a back gate.
"I think we've put it over, old man," says he, givin' me the cordial grip. "I can't tell you what a good turn you've done me."
"It's fifty-fifty," says I. "Where do I hit a station?"
"You take this trolley that's coming," says he. "That junk you have on you can send back to-morrow, in my care. And I—I trust you'll find things all right at home."
"Thanks," says I. "Hope you'll have the same luck yourself some day."
"Oh, perhaps," says he, shakin' his head doubtful. "If I ever get back. But not until I'm past thirty, anyway."
"Why so late?" asks I.
"What would get my goat," says he, "would be the risk of breakin' into the grandfather class before I got ready."
"Gee!" I gasps. "I hadn't thought of that."
So, with this new idea, and the cheerin' views Barnes had pumped into me, I has plenty to chew over durin' the next hour or so that I'm speedin' towards home. I expect that accounts some for the long face I must have been wearin' when I finally dashes through the front gate of the Lilacs and am let into the house by Leon Battou, the little old Frenchman who cooks and buttles for us.