Carrington sat down with a stifled groan. The sweetness had gone out of life. It was duty now. Say what you will, six years’ absence loosens ties of blood; and though he was ashamed to confess it himself, it was with a lagging loyalty that he thought of going home.
His whole life had been bent in one direction, and this abrupt break demanded a heroism which he resolved to simulate, at least. But he need not begin yet.
He could make his little moan to himself for this instant when he was alone.
He dipped the pen in the ink.
The first sheet of paper blotted hopelessly. And the second. The fingers that held a brush with unfaltering and delicate touch were clumsily nervous now.
John Carrington, Yellow Dog, Mich, (he got down). Am coming first boat.
“What was the boat?” he demanded of himself, and helplessly turned back to the Herald for information.
Kaiser Wilhelm sailing Cherbourg tomorrow.
Ned.
Then he dropped his face in his hands.
The written words seemed to make the thing so irrevocable.