"Mustard gas," said the surgeon.

He was back there when Spike on his stretcher came violently to life.

"What a dark night!" said Spike between two of the spasms that wrenched him. "Can't see your hand before your face!"

"Say, you're hog fat!" grumbled Private Cowan. "You weigh a ton!"

"It's dark, but it feels light--it's warm."

Private Cowan leaned to shield the sun from Spike's garbled face.

"Sure it's dark!" said he.

"Can't see your hand before your face!"

Spike was holding up a hand, thumb and fingers widely spread, moving it before his sightless eyes.

"You got to go back. You're too fat to be up here."

He rested his hand on Spike's forehead but withdrew it quickly when Spike winced.

He went on with the war; and the war went on.

"You would never guess," wrote Winona, "who was brought to this base hospital last week. It was the Mr. Brennon I wrote you of, Mr. Edward Brennon, the friend of Wilbur's who went with him from Newbern. He is blind from gas, poor thing! Our head surgeon knew him. It seems he is one of the prettiest lightweights the head surgeon ever saw in action, a two-handed fighter with a good right and a good left. These are terms used in the sport of boxing.

"Of course he knows he is blind, but at first he thought he was only in the dark. Wilbur had told him of me. The most curious misunderstanding--he is positive he once saw me at home. Says I am the prettiest thing he ever looked at, and don't I remember coming into the post office one day in a white dress and white shoes and a blue parasol and getting some mail and going out to a motor where some people waited for me? The foolish thing insists I have blue eyes and light brown hair and I was smiling when I looked at him in pa.s.sing; not smiling at him, of course, but from something the people in the car had said; and I had one glove off and carried the other with the blue sunshade. And I think he means a girl from Rochester that visited the Hendricks, those mill people, summer before last. She was pretty enough, in a girlish way, but not at all my type. But I can't convince Edward it was not I he saw. I have given up trying. What harm in letting him think so? He says, anyway, he would know I am beautiful, because he can feel it even if I come into the room. Did you ever hear such talk? But I am looking a lot better, in spite of all I have been through.

"I had a week in Paris last month, and bought some clothes, a real Paris dress and things." You would not know me in the new outfit. The skirt is of rather a daring shortness, but such is the mode now, and I am told it becomes me. Poor Edward, he is so patient, except for spells when he seems to go mad with realizing his plight. He is still a man. His expression is forceful. He doesn't smoke, and warns me against it, though the few cigarettes I allow myself are a precious relief. But I have promised him to give up the habit when the war is over. He is a strong man, but helpless. He still believes I am the pretty thing he saw in the post office. The skirt is pleated, light summer stuff, and falls in a straight line. Of course I have the shoes and stockings that go with it."

"There!" exploded the judge. "Taking up with prize fighters--traipsing round in a regular French dress, looking like something she's not supposed to be!"

"Lysander!" rebuked his wife hotly.

"He tells me lots about Wilbur," continued the letter. "He hints that the boy is in love, but will say nothing definite. Men are so close-mouthed. I hope our boy doesn't marry some little French anybody.

His face is not exactly pleasant to look upon for the time being, but he has a very winning personality."

"Who's she mean that for?" demanded the Judge, truculently. "The Cowan boy?"

CHAPTER XX

On a day late in June of 1919 Wilbur Cowan dropped off the noon train that paused at Newbern Center. He carried the wicker suitcase he had taken away, and wore the same clothes. He had the casual, incurious look of one who had been for a little trip down the line. No one about the station heeded him, nor did he notice any one he knew. There was a new a.s.semblage of station loafers, and none of these recognized him.

Suitcase in hand, his soft hat pulled well down, he walked quickly round the crowd and took a roundabout way through quiet streets to the Penniman place.

The town to his eye had shrunk; buildings were not so high as he remembered them, wide s.p.a.ces narrower, streets shorter, less thronged.

On his way he met old Mr. Dodwell, m.u.f.fled about the throat, though the day was hot, walking feebly, planting a stout cane before him. Mr.

Dodwell pa.s.sed blinking eyes over him, went on, then turned to call back.

"Ain't that Wilbur Cowan? How de do, Wilbur? Ain't you been away?"

"For a little while," answered Wilbur. "Thought I hadn't seen you for some time. Hot as blazes, ain't it?"

He came to the Penniman place at the rear. The vegetable garden, lying between the red barn and the white house, was as he had known it, uncared for, sad, discouraged. The judge's health could be no better. On bare earth at the corner of the woodshed Frank, the dog, slumbered fitfully in the shade. He merely grumbled, rising to change his posture, when greeted. Feebly he sniffed the newcomer. It could be seen that his memory was stirred, but his eyes told him nothing; he had a complaining air of saying one met so many people. It was beyond one to place them all. He whimpered when his ears were rubbed, seeming to recall a familiar touch. Then with a deep sigh he fell asleep once more. His master took up the suitcase and gained, without further encounters, the little room in the side-yard house. Yet he did not linger here. He kept seeing a small, barefoot boy who rummaged in a treasure box labelled "Cake." This boy made him uncomfortable. He went round to the front of the other house. On the porch, behind the morning-glory vine, Judge Penniman in his wicker chair languidly fanned himself, studying a thermometer held in his other hand. He glanced up sharply.

"Well, come back, did you?"

"Yes, sir," said Wilbur, and sat on the top step to fan himself with his hat. "Warm, isn't it?"

The judge brightened.

"Warm? Warm ain't any name for it! We been having a hot spell n.o.body remembers the like of, man nor boy, for twenty years. Why, day before yesterday--say, I wish you'd been here! Talk about suffering! I was having one of my bad days, and the least little thing I'd do I'd be panting like a tuckered hound. Say, how was the war?"

"Oh, so-so," answered the returned private.

"You tell it well. Seems to me if I'd been off skyhootin' round in foreign lands--say, how about them French women? Pretty bold lot, I guess, if you can believe all you--"

The parrot in its cage at the end of the porch climbed to a perch with beak and claw.

"Flapdoodle, Flapdoodle, Flapdoodle!" it screeched. The judge glared murderously at it.

"Wilbur Cowan, you bad, bad, bad child--not to let us know!" Mrs.

Penniman threw back the screen door and rushed to embrace him. "You regular fighting so-and-so!" she sobbed.

"Where'd you get that talk?" he demanded.

Mrs. Penniman wiped her eyes with a dish towel suspended from one arm.

"Oh, we heard all about you!"

She was warm, and shed gracious aromas. The returned one sniffed these.

"It's chops," he said--"and--and hot biscuits."

"And radishes from the garden, and b.u.t.termilk and clover honey and raspberries, and--let me see--"

"Let's go!" said the soldier.

"Then you can tell us all about that war," said the invalid as with groans he raised his bulk from the wicker chair.

"What war?" asked Wilbur.