II
Truxton Beaufort rode over to King's Crest the next morning, and sat on the steps of the Schoolhouse. Randy and Major Prime were having breakfast out-of-doors. It was ten o'clock, but they were apparently taking their ease.
"I thought you had to work," Truxton said to Randy.
"I sold a car yesterday——"
"And to-day you are playing around like a plutocrat. I wish I could sell cars. I wish I could do anything. Look here, you two. I wonder if you feel as I do."
"About what?"
"Coming back. I came home expecting a pedestal—and I give you my word nobody seems to think much of me except my family. And they aren't worshipful—exactly. They can't be. How can they rave over my one decoration when that young nigger John has two, and deserved them, and when
the butcher and baker and candlestick-maker are my ranking officers? War used to be a gentleman's game. But it isn't any more."
"We've got to carve our own pedestals," said the Major. "We are gods of yesterday. The world won't stop to praise us. We did our duty, and we would do it again. But our laurel wreaths are doffed. Our swords are beaten into plowshares. Peace is upon us. If we want pedestals, we've got to carve them."
Truxton argued that it wasn't quite fair. The Major agreed that it might not seem so, but the thing had been so vast, and there were so many men involved, so many heroes.