But now, for the first time he was not one of them. They eyed his elegances with suspicion—his fur coat, his gloves, his hat—the man whose limousine stood in front of the door was not one of them; they might beg of him, but they would never call him "Brother."
So, because his feet no longer carried him, and he must ride, he found himself cast out, as it were, by outcasts.
He ordered meat and drink for them, gave them money, made a joke or two as he limped among them, yet felt an alien. He watched them wistfully, seeing for the first time their sordidness, seeing what he himself had been, more sordid than any, because of his greater opportunities.
Sitting apart, he judged them, judged himself. If all the world were like these men, what kind of world would it be?
"Why aren't you fellows fighting?" he asked suddenly.
They stared at him. Grumbled. Why should they fight? One of them wept over it, called himself too old—.
But there were young men among them. "For God's sake get out of this—let me help you get out." The General stood up, leaned on his cane. "Look here, I've done a lot of things in my time—things like this—" his arm swept out towards the table, "and now I've only one good foot—the other will never be alive again. But you young chaps, you've got two good feet—to march. Do you know what that means, to march? Left, right, left, right and step out bravely—. Yankee Doodle and your heads up, flags flying? And you sit here like this?"
Two of the men had risen, young and strong. The General's cane pounded—he had their eyes! "Left, right, left, right—all over the world men are marching, and you sit here—"
The years seemed to have dropped from him. His voice rang with a fire that had once drawn men after him. He had led a charge at Gettysburg, and his men had followed!
And these two men would follow him. He saw the dawn of their resolve in their faces. "There's fine stuff in both of you," he said, "and the country needs you. Isn't it better to fight than to sit here? Get into my car and I'll take you down."