In the crowd of loafing youngsters that stood across the threshold of Wood’s pharmacy, Colonel Pettigrew’s darting eyes saw two of his own cadets. They were pimply youths, with slack jaws and a sloppy carriage.
He muttered his disgust. Not the same! Not the same! Nothing the same! In his proud youth, in the only war that mattered, Colonel Pettigrew had marched at the head of his own cadets. There were 117, sir, all under nineteen. They stepped forward to a man… until not a single commissioned officer was left… 36 came back… since 1789… it must go on!… 19, sir—all under one hundred and seventeen… must… go… on!
His sagging cheek-flanks trembled gently. The horses trotted out of sight around the corner, with a smooth-spoked rumble of rubber tires.
George Graves and Eugene entered Wood’s pharmacy and stood up to the counter. The elder soda-jerker, scowling, drew a sopping rag across a puddle of slop upon the marble slab.
“What’s yours?” he said irritably.
“I want a chock-lut milk,” said Eugene.
“Make it two,” added George Graves.
O for a draught of vintage that hath been cooled a long age in the deep-delvèd earth!
