“How’s my boy?”
“I’m all right.”
“Listen, Jo. The crowd’s coming over to-night. I’ve fixed up a little poker game for you. Just eight of us.”
“I can’t come to-night, Gert.”
“Can’t! Why not?”
“I’m not feeling so good.”
“You just said you were all right.”
“I am all right. Just kind of tired.”
The voice took on a cooing note. “Is my Joey tired? Then he doesn’t need to play if he don’t want to. No, sir.”
Jo stood staring at the black mouthpiece of the telephone. He was seeing a procession go marching by. Boys, hundreds of boys, in khaki.