At Plattsburg Part 22

"So there's something more in life for me now," said the father, "than the mere making of money."

It was in the midst of all the hurry and confusion of our getting ready to go that I heard a great shouting at the head of the street, and going to see, found the captain there, and Vera watching from a little distance. He had come to take personal leave of those he knew best, shook hands with every one, called scores of us by name, thanked us all for our help in his work, showed in his face his great new happiness. When those who pressed upon him first had gone away, driven by the necessity that was on all of them, he called me to him and made me promise not to leave with the rest, but at least to stay overnight--for we were to be brothers now, he said, and must know each other better before we separated. While a new group came and talked with him I went to Vera.

"Frances is waiting in the car outside," she said, scarcely glancing at me, but with eager eyes watching the captain and the men who still pressed upon him.

"Is he popular now?" I asked. "Do the men love him? Don't you approve of him a little bit yourself?"

This roused her into giving me all her attention for a moment. "Oh, d.i.c.k," she cried, remembering, "if it hadn't been for what you said to him, perhaps--!" She couldn't quite express the tragedy that would have followed.

"Perhaps it would have taken a little longer, that is all," I said.

"There, watch him, do." For in spite of herself her eyes would stray back to him. "Frances will be nice to me." And Frances was, until I told her I must go back to the boys.

There was a minute or two here and there that I could get from the busy men. But mostly I helped them get away, cleaned their guns, handed in their stuff, helped them pack, lugged their baggage with them to the train. Knudsen and I and Clay had one last short walk together, up and down the embankment beside the train, soberly vowing friendship for the future. Then the conductor gave the signal, they climbed aboard, there was a short half-minute of waving of good-bys, and I walked back alone across the empty drill field.

I am sitting now upon my bag in the tent which has so often rung with our laughter or buzzed with our talk. Here are the ridges and hollows made by our feet, over in the corner are Clay's old shoes, and near me lie three empty sh.e.l.ls that David threw out of his pocket. Our equipment is all turned in, the buzzards in our absence carried everything else away, and this lonely silence is more than I can bear. In a few minutes I shall close this last letter to you; then Frances will come in the car to take me to a telegraph office, where I shall wire you that she and I are starting home tomorrow with the Chapmans, and shall not be home for three days more. As I shall hint at the reason, you will understand and will forgive me this delay. I know, dear mother, that your heart always was with Frances, after all.

And so good-by to Plattsburg!

d.i.c.k