“Yes,” said George Graves. “They went away and joined the French army. They’re in the Foreign Legion.”
“They’re in the aviation part of it,” said Eugene. “The Lafayette Eskydrill. Clifton Wheeler has shot down more than six Germans.”
“The boys around here didn’t like him,” said George Graves. “They thought he was a sissy.”
Eugene winced slightly at the sound of the word.
“How old was he?” he asked.
“He was a grown man,” said George. “Twenty-two or three.”
Disappointed, Eugene considered his chance of glory. (Ich bin ja noch ein Kind.)
“—But fortunately,” continued Judge Walter C. Jeter deliberately, “we have a man in the White House on whose far-seeing statesmanship we can safely rely. Let us trust to the wisdom of his leadership, obeying, in word and spirit, the principles of strict neutrality, accepting only as a last resort a course that would lead this great nation again into the suffering and tragedy of war, which,” his voice sank to a whisper, “God forbid!”
Thinking of a more ancient war, in which he had borne himself gallantly, Colonel James Buchanan Pettigrew, head of the Pettigrew Military Academy (Est. 1789), rode by in his open victoria, behind an old negro driver and two well-nourished brown mares. There was a good brown smell of horse and sweat-cured leather. The old negro snaked his whip gently across the sleek trotting rumps, growling softly.
Colonel Pettigrew was wrapped to his waist in a heavy rug, his shoulders were covered with a gray Confederate cape. He bent forward, leaning his old weight upon a heavy polished stick, which his freckled hand gripped upon the silver knob. Muttering, his proud powerful old head turned shakily from side to side, darting fierce splintered glances at the drifting crowd. He was a very parfit gentil knight.
He muttered.
“Suh?” said the negro, pulling in on his reins, and turning around.
“Go on! Go on, you scoundrel!” said Colonel Pettigrew.
“Yes, suh,” said the negro. They drove on.
