—Mary Brecht Pulver.
VIII—SERGT. WARREN COMES BACK FROM FRANCE
Immediately after voting, the Rev. Jeremiah Soule stepped outside the town hall to fortify himself with fresh air for the coming meeting. Several others had done the same.
“Been a hard winter, Mr. Soule,” politely remarked one of the loiterers about the door. He was clad for the gusts of March like a sealer about to venture forth upon an Arctic floe.
“And especially for the boys in the trenches,” said the minister.
“That’s a fact, sir. I didn’t mean we’d ought to complain. We had our share of coal and wood, I guess, if the wood was green and the coal mostly slate.”
“And we had the money to pay for it.”
The group of men stirred a little uneasily.
“Honestly made, I think you’ll admit that, sir,” said Arthur Watts, a strapping fellow of thirty years, who had been called in the first draft and rejected on account of his poor teeth.
“I believe so—quite,” admitted Mr. Soule. “We are making good rope for the government and our allies, and no one is better pleased over it than I. I’m proud of the cordage plant. Yes, since this dreadful war had to be, the town has come honestly enough by its prosperity.”