The day passed fruitlessly for her. The Inger found a room, which he rented without looking at it, and came back to the Folts’s for his things. Mrs. Folts insisted that he stay for supper, and when he had accepted he was aghast to find that, the evening being chilly, and Mr. Folts being kept late at the department that night, they were to sit at supper in the kitchen.
The old man on the settle was very quiet. He sat crouched in a corner, and save for those immovable eyes on them all, his presence would hardly have been noticed. The Inger had brought an evening paper, and occasionally he read from it snatches of the European news, but principally to keep his eyes from the old man.
“Ranks to be thrown open without age limit.”
he read.
“Rumored that young boys and old men will be drafted within a month.”
“There, pa, who says that ain’t your chance?” Mrs. Folts put in.
The old man lifted his head, and listened.
“War may drag on for another year,” the Inger continued, and the old man broke out with that sharp labored outpouring of guttural breath—once, twice, three times.
“War!” he said. “War. War. Who says I can go? Who says....”