But Adam had a parade of his own. In the evening, when the music and the speeches were over and the half-dozen graves of those of Fosterville’s young men who had been brought home had been heaped with flowers, and Fosterville sat on doorsteps and porches talking about the day, Adam put on a gray uniform and walked from one end of the village to the other. These were people who had known him always; the word flew from step to step. Many persons spoke to him, some laughed, and a few jeered. To no one did Adam pay any heed. Past the house of Newton Towne, past the store of Ed Green, past the wide lawn of Henry Foust, walked Adam, his hands clasped behind his back, as though to make more perpendicular than perpendicularity itself that stiff backbone. Henry Foust ran down the steps and out to the gate.
“Oh, Adam!” cried he.
Adam stopped, stock-still. He could see Peter Allinson and Newton Towne, and even Ed Green, on Henry’s porch. They were all having ice-cream and cake together.
“Well, what?” said he, roughly.
“Won’t you shake hands with me?”
“No,” said Adam.
“Won’t you come in?”
“Never.”
Still Henry persisted.
“Some one might do you harm, Adam.”