"You're the girl that saved my life out there in the field, don't you remember? With the lemonade!" Her face lit up. She had recognized him and somehow cleared one hand of chocolate and telegrams to grasp his with a hearty welcome: "I'm so glad you came through all right!" her cheery voice said.

All right! _All right!_ Did she call it all right? He looked down at his one foot with a dubious frown. She was quick to see. She understood.

"Oh, but that's nothing!" she said, and somehow her voice put new heart into him. "Your folks will be so glad to have you home you'll forget all about it. Come, aren't you going to send them a telegram?" And she held out the yellow blank.

But still he hesitated.

"I don't know," he said, looking down at his foot again. "Mother's gone, and------"

Instantly her quick sympathy enveloped his sore soul, and he felt that just the inflection of her voice was like balm when she said: "I'm so sorry!" Then she added:

"But isn't there somebody else? I'm sure there was. I'm sure you told me about a girl I was to write to if you didn't come through. Aren't you going to let her know? Of course you are."

"I don't know," said the boy. "I don't think I am. Maybe I'll never go back now. You see, I'm not what I was when I went away."

"Nonsense!" said the la.s.sie with that cheerful a.s.surance that had carried her through sh.e.l.l fire and made her merit the pet name of "Sunshine" that the boys had given her in the trenches. "Why, that wouldn't be fair to her. Of course, you're going to let her know right away. Leave it to me.

Here, give me her address!"

Quick as a flash she had the address and was off to a telephone booth.

This was no message that could wait to go back to headquarters. It must go at once.

He saw her again before he left the wharf. She gave him a card with two addresses written on it:

"This first is where you can drop in and rest when you are tired," she explained. "It's just one of our huts; the other is where you can find a good bed when you are in the city."

Then she was off with a smile down the line, giving out more telegraph blanks and scattering sunshine wherever she went. He glanced back as he left the pier and saw her still floating eagerly here and there like a little sister looking after more real brothers.

The next day, when he was free and on a few days leave from camp, he started out with his crutch to see the city, but the thought of her kept him from some of the places where his feet might have strayed. Yet she had not said a word of warning. Her smile and the look in her eyes had placed perfect confidence in him, and he could remember the prayer she had uttered in a low tone back there at the dressing station behind the trenches in the ear of a companion who was not going to live to get to the Base Hospital, and who had begged her to pray with him before he went.

Somehow it lingered with him all day and changed his ideas of what he wanted to see in New York.

But it was a long hard tramp he had set for himself to see the town with that one foot. He hadn't much money for cars, even if he had known which cars to take, so he hobbled along and saw what he could. He was all alone, for the fellows he started with went so fast and wanted to do so many things that he could not do, that he had made an excuse to shake them off.

They were kind. They would not have left him if they had known; but he wasn't going to begin his new life having everybody put out on his account, so he was alone. And it was toward evening. He was very tired. It seemed to him that he couldn't go another block. If only there were a place somewhere where he could sit down a little while and rest; even a doorstep would do if there were only one near at hand. Of course, there were saloons, and there would always be soldiers in them. He would likely be treated, and there would be good cheer, and a chance to forget for a little while; but somehow the thought of that Salvation la.s.sie and the cheery way she had made him send that telegram kept him back. When a girl with painted cheeks stopped and smiled in his face he pa.s.sed her by, and half wondered why he did it. He must go somewhere presently and get a bite to eat, but it couldn't be much for he wanted to save money enough and hunt up that lodging house where there were nice beds. How much he wanted that bed!

[Ill.u.s.tration: Right in the midst of the busy hurrying throng of Union Square]

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Smiling Billy" "One Game Little Guy"]

It was quite dark now. The lights were lit everywhere. He was coming to a great thoroughfare. He judged by his slight knowledge of the city that it might be Broadway. There would likely be a restaurant somewhere near. He hurried on and turned into the crowded street. How cold it was! The wind cut him like a knife. He had been a fool to come off alone like this! Just out of the hospital, too. Perhaps he would get sick and have to go to another hospital. He shivered and stopped to pull his collar up closer around his neck. Then suddenly he stood still and stared with a dazed, bewildered expression, straight ahead of him. Was he getting a bit leary?

He pa.s.sed his hand over his eyes and looked again. Yes, there it was!

Right in the midst of the busy, hurrying throng of Union Square! He made sure it was Union Square, for he looked up at the street sign to be certain it wasn't Willow Vale--or Heaven--right there where streets met and crossed, and cars and trolleys and trucks whirled, and people pa.s.sed in throngs all day, just across the narrow road, stood the loveliest, most perfect little white clapboard cottage that ever was built on this earth, with porches all around and a big tree growing up through the roof of one porch. It stood out against the night like a wonderful mirage, like a heavenly dove descended into the turmoil of the pit, like home and mother in the midst of a rushing pitiless world. He could have cried real tears of wonder and joy as he stood there, gazing. He felt as though he were one of those motion pictures in which a lone Klondiker sits by his campfire cooking a can of salmon or baked beans, and up above him on the screen in one corner appears the Christmas tree where his wife and baby at home are celebrating and missing him. It seemed just as unreal as that to see that little beautiful home cottage set down in the midst of the city.

The windows were all lit up with a warm, rosy light and there were curtains at the windows, rosy pink curtains like the ones they used to have at the house where his girl lived, long ago before the War spoiled him. He stood and continued to gaze until a lot of cash-boys, let loose from the toil of the day, rushed by and almost knocked his crutch from under him. Then he determined to get nearer this wonder. Carefully watching his opportunity he hobbled across the street and went slowly around the building. Yes, it was real. Some public building, of course, but how wonderful to have it look so like a home! Why had they done it?

Then he came around toward the side, and there in plain letters was a sign: "SOLDIERS AND SAILORS IN UNIFORM WELCOME." What? Was it possible?

Then he might go in? What kind of a place could it be?

He raised his eyes a little and there, slung out above the neatly shingled porch, like any sign, swung an immense fat brown doughnut a foot and a half in diameter, with the sugar apparently still sticking to it, and inside the rough hole sat a big white coffee cup. His heart leaped up and something suddenly gave him an idea. He fumbled in his pocket, brought out a card, saw that this was the Salvation Army hut, and almost shouted with joy. He lost no time in hurrying around to the door and stepping inside.

There revealed before him was a great cozy room, with many easy-chairs and tables, a piano at which a young soldier sat playing ragtime, and at the farther end a long white counter on which shone two bright steaming urns that sent forth a delicious odor of coffee. Through an open door behind the counter he caught a glimpse of two Salvation Army la.s.sies busy with some cups and plates, and a third enveloped in a white ap.r.o.n was up to her elbows in flour, mixing something in a yellow bowl. By one of the little tables two soldier boys were eating doughnuts and coffee, and at another table a sailor sat writing a letter. It was all so cozy and homelike that it took his breath away and he stood there blinking at the lights that flooded the rooms from graceful white bowl-like globes that hung suspended from the ceiling by bra.s.s chains. He saw that the rosy light outside had come from soft pink silk sash curtains that covered the lower part of the windows, and there were inner draperies of some heavier flowered material that made the whole thing look real and substantial. The willow chairs had cushions of the same flowered stuff. The walls were a soft pearly gray below and creamy white above, set off by bands of dark wood, and a dark floor with rush mats strewn about. He looked around slowly, taking in every detail almost painfully. It was such a contrast to the noisy, rushing street, a contrast to the hospital, and the trenches and all the life with which he had been familiar during the past few dreadful months.

It made him think of home and mother. He began to be afraid he was going to cry like a great big baby, and he looked around nervously for a place to get out of sight. He saw a fellow going upstairs and at a distance he followed him. Up there was another bright, quiet room, curtained and cushioned like the other, with more easy willow chairs, round willow tables, and desks over by the wall where one might write. The soldier who had come up ahead of him was already settled writing now at a desk in the far corner. There were bookcases between the windows with new beautifully bound books in them, and there were magazines scattered around, and no rules that one must not spit on the floor, or put their feet in the chairs, or anything of the sort. Only, of course, no one would ever dream of doing anything like that in such a place. How beautiful it was, and how quiet and peaceful! He sank into a chair and looked about him. What rest!

And now there were real tears in his eyes which he hastened to brush roughly away, for someone was coming toward him and a hand was on his shoulder. A man's voice, kindly, pleasant, brotherly, spoke:

"All in, are you, my boy? Well, you just sit and rest yourself awhile.

What do you think of our hut? Good place to rest? Well, that's what we want it to be to you, Home. Just drop in here whenever you're in town and want a place to rest or write, or a bite of something homelike to eat."

He looked up to the broad shoulders in their well-fitting dark blue uniform, and into the kindly face of the gray-haired Colonel of the Salvation Army who happened to step in for a minute on business and had read the look on the lonesome boy's face just in time to give a word of cheer. He could have thrown his arms around the man's neck and kissed him if he only hadn't been too shy. But in spite of the shyness he found himself talking with this fine strong man and telling him some of his disappointments and perplexities, and when the older man left him he was strengthened in spirit from the brief conversation. Somehow it didn't look quite so black a prospect to have but one foot.

He read a magazine for a little while and then, drawn by the delicious odors, he went downstairs and had some coffee and doughnuts. He saw while he was eating that the front porch opened out of the big lower room and was all enclosed in gla.s.s and heated with radiators. A lot of fellows were sitting around there in easy-chairs, smoking, talking, one or two sleeping in their chairs or reading papers. It had a dim, quiet light, a good place to rest and think. He was more and more filled with wonder. Why did they do it? Not for money, for they charged hardly enough to pay for the materials in the food they sold, and he knew by experience that when one had no money one could buy of them just the same if one were in need.

Later in the evening he took out the little card again and looked up the other address. He wanted one of those clean, sweet beds that he had been hearing about, that one could get for only a quarter a night, with all the shower-bath you wanted thrown in. So he went out again and found his way down to Forty-first Street.

There was something homelike about the very atmosphere as he entered the little office room and looked about him. Beyond, through an open door he could see a great red brick fireplace with a fire blazing cheerfully and a few fellows sitting about reading and playing checkers. Everybody looked as if they felt at home.

When he signed his name in the big register book the young woman behind the desk who wore an overseas uniform glanced at his signature and then looked up as if she were welcoming an old friend:

"There's a telegram here for you," she said pleasantly. "It came last night and we tried to locate you at the camp but did not succeed. One of our girls went over to camp this afternoon, but they said you were gone on a furlough, so we hoped you would turn up."

She handed over the telegram and he took it in wonder. Who would send him a telegram? And here of all places! Why, how would anybody know he would be here? He was so excited his crutch trembled under his arm as he tore open the envelope and read:

"Dear Billy (It was a regular letter!):

"I am leaving to-night for New York. Will meet you at Salvation Hostel day after to-morrow morning. What is a foot more or less? Can't I be hands and feet for you the rest of your life? I'm proud, proud, proud of you!

Signed "Jean"

He found great tears coming into his eyes and his throat was full of them, too. It didn't matter if that Salvation Army la.s.sie behind the counter did see them roll down his cheeks. He didn't care. She would understand anyway, and he laughed out loud in his joy and relief, the first joy, the first relief since he was hurt!

Some one else was coming in the door, another fellow maybe, but the la.s.sie opened a door in the desk and drew him behind the counter in a shaded corner where no one would notice and brought him a cup of tea, which she said was all they had around to eat just then. She didn't pay any attention to him till he got his equilibrium again.

She was the kind of woman one feels is a natural-born mother. In fact, the fellows were always asking her wistfully: "May we call you Mother?" Young enough to understand and enter into their joys and sorrows, yet old enough to be wise and sweet and true. She mothered every boy that came.

A sailor boy once asked if he might bring his girl to see her. He said he wanted her to see her so she could tell his mother about her.

"But can't you tell her about your girl?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, but I want you to tell her." he said. "You see, whatever you say mother'll know is true."

So presently she turned to this lonely boy and took him upstairs through the pleasant upper room with its piano and games, its sun parlor over the street, lined with trailing ferns, with cheery canaries in swinging ta.s.seled cages, who looked fully as happy and at home as did the soldier boys who were sitting about comfortably reading. She found him a room with only one other bunk in it. Nice white beds with springs like air and mattresses like down. She showed him where the shower-baths were, and with a kindly good-night left him. He almost wanted to ask her to kiss him good-night, so much like his own mother she seemed.

Before he got into that white bed he knelt beside it, all clean and comfortable and happy like a little child that had wandered a long way from home and got back again, and he told G.o.d he was sorry and ashamed for all the way he had doubted, and sinned, and he wanted to live a new life and be good. Then he lay down to sleep. To-morrow morning Jean would be there. And she didn't mind about the foot! She didn't mind! How wonderful!

And then he had a belated memory of the little Salvation Army la.s.sie on the wharf who had brought all this about, and he closed his eyes and murmured out loud to the clean, white walls: "G.o.d bless her! Oh, G.o.d bless her!"

This is only one of the many stories that might be told about the boys who have been helped by the various activities of the Salvation Army, both at home and abroad.

It would be well worth one's while to visit their Brooklyn Hospital and their New York Hospital and all their other wonderful inst.i.tutions. In several of them are many little children, some mere infants, belonging to soldiers and sailors away in the war. In some instances the mother is dead, or has to work. If she so desires she is given work in the inst.i.tution, which is like a real home, and allowed to be with her child and care for it. Where both mother and father are dead the child remains for six years or until a home elsewhere is provided for it. Here the little ones are well cared for, not in the ordinary sense of an inst.i.tution, but as a child would be cared for in a home, with beauty and love, and pleasure mingling with the food and shelter and raiment that is usually supplied in an inst.i.tution. These children are prettily, though simply, dressed and not in uniform; with dainty bits of color in hair ribbon, collar, necktie or frock; the babies have wee pink and blue wool caps and sacks like any beloved little mites, they ride around on Kiddie Cars, play with doll houses and have a fine Kindergarten teacher to guide their young minds, and the best of hospital service when they are ailing.

But that is another story, and there are yet many of them. If everybody could see the beautiful life-size painting of Christ blessing the little children which is painted right on the very wall and blended into the tinting, they could better comprehend the spirit which pervades this lovely home.