it, have been all day."

He paused, drew a shaking hand across his forehead and then asked, "Al, will you help me? I asked you up here hopin' you would. Will you, Al, eh? Will you?"

Albert could not understand how he could possibly help another man keep the pledge, but his promise was eagerly given.

"Certainly, Labe," he said.

"Thanks ... thank you, Al... . And now will you do something for me--a favor?"

"Gladly. What is it?"

Laban did not answer at once. He appeared to be on the point of doing so, but to be struggling either to find words or to overcome a tremendous reluctance. When he did speak the words came in a burst.

"Go down stairs," he cried. "Down those stairs you came up. At the foot of 'em, in a kind of cupboard place, under 'em, there's--there probably is a jug, a full jug. It was due to come by express to-day and I cal'late it did, cal'late Jim Young fetched it down this afternoon. I--I could have looked for myself and seen if 'twas there," he added, after a momentary hesitation, "but--but I didn't dare to. I was afraid I'd--I'd--"

"All right, Labe. I understand. What do you want me to do with it if it is there?"

"I want you--I want you to--to--" The little bookkeeper seemed to be fighting another internal battle between inclination and resolution. The latter won, for he finished with, "I want you to take it out back of the buildin' and--and empty it. That's what I want you to do, empty it, Al, every drop... . And, for the Almighty's sake, go quick," he ordered, desperately, "or I'll tell you not to before you start. Go!"

Albert went. He fumbled in the cupboard under the stairs, found the jug--a large one and heavy--and hastened out into the night with it in his hands. Behind the shoe store, amid a heap of old packing boxes and other rubbish, he emptied it. The process was rather lengthy and decidedly fragrant. As a finish he smashed the jug with a stone. Then he climbed the stairs again.

Laban was waiting for him, drops of perspiration upon his forehead.

"Was--was it there?" he demanded.

Albert nodded.

"Yes, yes. 'Twas there, eh? And did you--did you--?"

"Yes, I did, jug and all."

"Thank you, Al ... thank you ... I--I've been trying to muster up s.p.u.n.k enough to do it myself, but--but I swan I couldn't. I didn't dast to go nigh it ... I'm a fine specimen, ain't I, now?" he added, with a twisted smile. "Some coward, eh? Yes, yes. Some coward."

Albert, realizing a little of the fight the man was making, was affected by it. "You're a brick, Labe," he declared, heartily. "And as for being a coward--Well, if I am half as brave when my turn comes I shall be satisfied."

Laban shook his head. "I don't know how scared I'd be of a German bombsh.e.l.l," he said, "but I'm everlastin' sure I wouldn't run from it for fear of runnin' towards it, and that's how I felt about that jug.

... Yes, yes, yes. I did so ... I'm much obliged to you, Al. I shan't forget it--no, no. I cal'late you can trot along home now, if you want to. I'm pretty safe--for to-night, anyhow. Guess likely the new recruit won't desert afore morning."

But Albert, watching him intently, refused to go.

"I'm going to stay for a while, Labe," he said. "I'm not a bit sleepy, really. Let's have a smoke and talk together. That is, of course, unless you want to go to bed."

Mr. Keeler smiled his twisted smile. "I ain't crazy to," he said. "The way I feel now I'd get to sleep about week after next. But I hadn't ought to keep you up, Al."

"Rubbish! I'm not sleepy, I tell you. Sit down. Have a cigar. Now what shall we talk about? How would books do? What have you been reading lately, Labe?"

They smoked and talked books until nearly two. Then Laban insisted upon his guest departing. "I'm all right, Al" he declared, earnestly. "I am honest--yes, yes, I am. I'll go to sleep like a lamb, yes indeed."

"You'll be at the office in the morning, won't you, Labe?"

The little bookkeeper nodded. "I'll be there," he said. "Got to answer roll call the first mornin' after enlistment. Yes, yes. I'll be there, Al."

He was there, but he did not look as if his indulgence in the lamb-like sleep had been excessive. He was so pale and haggard that his a.s.sistant was alarmed.

"You're not sick, are you, Labe?" he asked, anxiously. Laban shook his head.

"No," he said. "No, I ain't sick. Been doin' picket duty up and down the room since half past three, that's all. Um-hm, that's all. Say, Al, if General what's-his-name--er--von Hindenburg--is any harder sc.r.a.pper than old Field Marshal Barleycorn he's a pretty tough one. Say, Al, you didn't say anything about--about my--er--enlistin' to Cap'n Lote, did you? I meant to ask you not to."

"I didn't, Labe. I thought you might want it kept a secret."

"Um-hm. Better keep it in the ranks until we know how this first--er--skirmish is comin' out. Yes, yes. Better keep it that way.

Um-hm."

All day he stuck manfully at his task and that evening, immediately after supper, Albert went to the room over the shoe store, found him there and insisted upon his coming over to call upon Rachel. He had not intended doing so.

"You see, Al," he explained, "I'm--I'm kind of--er--shaky and Rachel will be worried, I'm afraid. She knows me pretty well and she'll cal'late I'm just gettin' ready to--to bust loose again."

Albert interrupted. "No, she won't, Laban," he said. "We'll show her that you're not."

"You won't say anything to her about my--er--enlistin', Al? Don't.

No, no. I've promised her too many times--and broke the promises. If anything should come of this fight of mine I'd rather she'd find it out for herself. Better to surprise her than to disapp'int her. Yes, yes, lots better."

Albert promised not to tell Rachel and so Laban made his call. When it was over the young man walked home with him and the pair sat and talked until after midnight, just as on the previous night. The following evening it was much the same, except that, as Mr. Keeler p.r.o.nounced himself more than usually "shaky" and expressed a desire to "keep movin'," they walked half way to Orham and back before parting. By the end of the week Laban declared the fight won--for the time.

"You've pulled me through the fust tussle, Al," he said. "I shan't desert now, not till the next break-out, anyhow. I cal'late it'll get me harder than ever then. Harder than ever--yes, yes. And you won't be here to help me, neither."

"Never mind; I shall be thinking of you, Labe. And I know you're going to win. I feel it in my bones."

"Um-hm... . Yes, yes, yes... In your bones, eh? Well, MY bones don't seem to feel much, except rheumatics once in a while. I hope yours are better prophets, but I wouldn't want to bet too high on it. No, I wouldn't--no, no. However, we'll do our best, and they say angels can't do any more--though they'd probably do it in a different way ... some different... . Um-hm... . Yes, indeed."

Two letters came to Albert before that week ended. The first was from Madeline. He had written her of his intention to enlist and this was her reply. The letter had evidently been smuggled past the censor, for it contained much which Mrs. Fosd.i.c.k would have blue-penciled. Its contents were a blend of praise and blame, of exaltation and depression. He was a hero, and so brave, and she was so proud of him. It was wonderful his daring to go, and just what she would have expected of her hero. If only she might see him in his uniform. So many of the fellows she knew had enlisted. They were wonderfully brave, too, although of course nothing like as wonderful as her own etcetera, etcetera. She had seen some of THEM in their uniforms and they were PERFECTLY SPLENDID. But they were officers, or they were going to be. Why wasn't he going to be an officer? It was so much nicer to be an officer. And if he were one he might not have to go away to fight nearly so soon. Officers stayed here longer and studied, you know. Mother had said something about "a common private," and she did not like it. But never mind, she would be just as proud no matter what he was. And she should dream of him and think of him always and always. And perhaps he might be so brave and wonderful that he would be given one of those war crosses, the Croix de Guerre or something. She was sure he would. But oh, no matter what happened, he must not go where it was TOO dangerous. Suppose he should be wounded.

Oh, suppose, SUPPOSE he should be killed. What would she do then? What would become of her? MUST he go, after all? Couldn't he stay at home and study or something, for a while, you know? She should be so lonely after he was gone. And so frightened and so anxious. And he wouldn't forget her, would he, no matter where he went? Because she never, never, never would forget him for a moment. And he must write every day. And--

The letter was fourteen pages long.

The other letter was a surprise. It was from Helen. The Reverend Mr.

Kendall had been told of Albert's intended enlistment and had written his daughter.

So you are going into the war, Albert (she wrote). I am not surprised because I expected you would do just that. It is what all of us would like to do, I'm sure, and you were always anxious to go, even before the United States came in. So I am writing this merely to congratulate you and to wish you the very best of good luck. Father says you are not going to try for a commission but intend enlisting as a private. I suppose that is because you think you may get to the actual fighting sooner. I think I understand and appreciate that feeling too, but are you sure it is the best plan? You want to be of the greatest service to the country and with your education and brains--This ISN'T flattery, because it is true--don't you think you might help more if you were in command of men? Of course I don't know, being only a girl, but I have been wondering. No doubt you know best and probably it is settled before this; at any rate, please don't think that I intend b.u.t.ting in. "b.u.t.ting in" is not at all a proper expression for a schoolmarm to use but it is a relief to be human occasionally. Whatever you do I am sure will be the right thing and I know all your friends are going to be very, very proud of you. I shall hear of you through the people at home, I know, and I shall be anxious to hear. I don't know what I shall do to help the cause, but I hope to do something. A musket is prohibitive to females but the knitting needle is ours and I CAN handle that, if I do say it.

And I MAY go in for Red Cross work altogether. But I don't count much, and you men do, and this is your day. Please, for the sake of your grandparents and all your friends, don't take unnecessary chances. I can see your face as you read that and think that I am a silly idiot. I'm not and I mean what I say. You see I know YOU and I know you will not be content to do the ordinary thing. We want you to distinguish yourself, but also we want you to come back whole and sound, if it is possible.

We shall think of you a great deal. And please, in the midst of the excitement of the BIG work you are doing, don't forget us home folk, including your friend,

HELEN KENDALL.

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 pa.s.sed 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 partic.i.p.ation 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.