Albert's feelings when he read this letter were divided.He enjoyed hearing from Helen.The letter was just like herself, sensible and good-humored and friendly.There were no hysterics in it and no heroics but he knew that no one except his grandparents and Rachel and Laban--and, of course, his own Madeline--would think of him oftener or be more anxious for his safety and welfare than Helen.He was glad she was his friend, very glad.But he almost wished she had not written.He felt a bit guilty at having received the letter.He was pretty sure that Madeline would not like the idea.He was tempted to say nothing concerning it in his next letter to his affianced, but that seemed underhanded and cowardly, so he told her.And in her next letter to him Madeline made no reference at all to Helen or her epistle, so he knew she was displeased.And he was miserable in consequence.
But his misery did not last long.The happenings which followed crowded it from his mind, and from Madeline's also, for that matter.One morning, having told no one except his grandfather of his intention, he took the morning train to Boston.When he returned the next day he was Uncle Sam's man, sworn in and accepted.He had passed the physical examination with flying colors and the recruiting officers expressed themselves as being glad to get him.He was home for but one day leave, then he must go to stay.He had debated the question of going in for a commission, but those were the early days of our participation in the war and a Plattsburg training or at least some sort of military education was almost an essential.He did not want to wait; as he had told his grandfather, he wanted to fight.So he enlisted as a private.
And when the brief leave was over he took the train for Boston, no longer Alberto Miguel Carlos Speranza, South Harniss's Beau Brummel, poet and Portygee, but Private Speranza, U.S.A.The farewells were brief and no one cried--much.His grandmother hugged and kissed him, Rachel looked very much as if she wanted to.
Laban and Issachar shook hands with him.
"Good luck to you, boy," said Mr.Keeler."All the luck there is.""Same to you, old man," replied Albert.Then, in a lower tone, he added, "We'll fight it out together, eh?""We'll try.Yes, yes.We'll try.So long, Al."Issachar struck the reassuring note."Don't fret about things in the office," he said."I'll look out for 'em long's I keep my health.""Be sure and keep that, Issy."
"You bet you! Only thing that's liable to break it down is over-work."
Captain Zelotes said very little."Write us when you can, Al," he said."And come home whenever you get leave.""You may be sure of that, Grandfather.And after I get to camp perhaps you can come and see me.""Maybe so.Will if I can....Well, Al, I...I....Good luck to you, son.""Thank you, Grandfather."
They shook hands.Each looked as if there was more he would have liked to say but found the saying hard.Then the engine bell rang and the hands fell apart.The little group on the station platform watched the train disappear.Mrs.Snow and Rachel wiped their eyes with their handkerchiefs.Captain Zelotes gently patted his wife's shoulder.
"The team's waitin', Mother," he said."Labe'll drive you and Rachel home.""But--but ain't you comin', too, Zelotes?" faltered Olive.Her husband shook his head.
"Not now, Mother," he answered."Got to go back to the office."He stood for an instant looking at the faint smear of smoke above the curve in the track.Then, without another word, he strode off in the direction of Z.Snow and Co.'s buildings.Issachar Price sniffed.
"Crimus," he whispered to Laban, as the latter passed him on the way to where Jessamine, the Snow horse, was tied, "the old man takes it cool, don't he! I kind of imagined he'd be sort of shook up by Al's goin' off to war, but he don't seem to feel it a mite."Keeler looked at him in wonder.Then he drew a long breath.
"Is," he said, slowly, "it is a mighty good thing for the Seven Wise Men of Greece that they ain't alive now."It was Issachar's turn to stare."Eh?" he queried."The Seven Wise Men of Which? Good thing for 'em they ain't alive? What kind of talk's that? Why is it a good thing?"Laban spoke over his shoulder."Because," he drawled, "if they was alive now they'd be so jealous of you they'd commit suicide.Yes, they would....Yes, yes."With which enigmatical remark he left Mr.Price and turned his attention to the tethered Jessamine.
And then began a new period, a new life at the Snow place and in the office of Z.Snow and Co.Or, rather, life in the old house and at the lumber and hardware office slumped back into the groove in which it had run before the opera singer's son was summoned from the New York school to the home and into the lives of his grandparents.Three people instead of four sat down at the breakfast table and at dinner and at supper.Captain Zelotes walked alone to and from the office.Olive Snow no longer baked and iced large chocolate layer cakes because a certain inmate of her household was so fond of them.Rachel Ellis discussed Foul Play and Robert Penfold with no one.The house was emptier, more old-fashioned and behind the times, more lonely--surprisingly empty and behind the times and lonely.
The daily mails became matters of intense interest and expectation.
Albert wrote regularly and of course well and entertainingly.He described the life at the camp where he and the other recruits were training, a camp vastly different from the enormous military towns built later on for housing and training the drafted men.He liked the life pretty well, he wrote, although it was hard and a fellow had precious little opportunity to be lazy.Mistakes, too, were unprofitable for the maker.Captain Lote's eye twinkled when he read that.
