Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 123, No. 4 — page 190: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

696 He remembered other nights in khaki, for he was stationed not so far away, and could get home occasionally. Then there was a day when the town told one another that he was across; that his first letter had arrived. It was not visible, but he lived those months because he knew that at home he was con- stantly in their thoughts. There was little dancing at the country club that summer, too many of the fellows were gone, and while death was kind to the little band, the icy finger of tragedy had touched. Who would want to dance when the yellow slip from Washington said that Andrew Eaton was missing, or even when the corrected slip said that the first message was incorrect, and that he was alive, but seriously wounded. They were not days for dancing. Of course, after the letters came that said he was better, that made every one feel better, and the unexpected ending of the conflict was such a joy that everyone did want to dance. Then the boys began to come home. By early spring so many of them were back that the house committee borrowed enough coal to light two big furnaces, and have a Washington’s birthday dance. That had been the night of nights for Andrew Eaton; memory held no choicer hour. He had arrived in the United States the day before. He had phoned his mother from the pier, and had gone at once to the Base Hospital to which he was assigned. He was a captain now, more handsome than ever, for the gray look that the pain had left was becoming. On the shell-torn fields of battle he had won the Croix de Guerre—they had pinned it on his coat in . the big hall of the hospital. His mother and father had gone to ‘him at once. There had been scarcely half an hour to get the train, and they had told no one. There was not time. He was fully cured, as good as ever he would be, the surgeon said, and he had been given a ten- day pass. He went home with them the fol- lowing afternoon. That night he went to the dance at the country club. Even now he smiled at the memory of how he had slipped unnoticed past the few who hung about the door, and ee ee ; | ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. so to the broad doorway of the assembly room. One of the fellows had noticed him first, and stopped dead in the midst of a waltz step. Two or three couples bumped his partner, but he did not apologize for his action. “Gee! It’s—it’s Andy Eaton,” he had cried, and propelling the lady of his dance with him, he had made for’ the door. A dozen echoed his cry. It was Andy Eaton! The colored orchestra, long-standing favo- rites of the club, forgot to play. The piano leader stood up to catch a glimpse of the fellow who had been the best dancer the club boasted. That was triumph! Andy’s head went higher as he thought of it. But, triumph-like, it had not lasted. Even the wounded hero loses caste when he discards the khaki and is seen daily. Weeks passed. Eaton had gone his way about the town, had sat as an honored guest on the reviewing stand when they celebrated Wel- come Home day—and gradually, so very gradually that it was months. before he noticed it, he had fallen; he had suffered the lot of those so aptly classed as “has beens.” It was not a question of self-conceit: Andy was not a cad, but rather having been fed on admiration from babyhood, he missed the mental nourishment as a man misses beefsteak and bread. That was it exactly. He had been the center of attrac- tion, and was no more. On the side line of youth was where he found his place, not in the center of the rushing group that made’ up the activities of the small city. Idly he loafed away the days. Even at home he no longer held the place that had once been his, for how could one show great interest in a chap who spent at least two-thirds of his time sitting about the house, the rest of the time at the club, play- ing cards occasionally, or reading? Had he been a poor boy he would have been forced to seek occupation, and so profit by the vocational and employment bureau of the local Red Cross. But his father ‘chatted with him, handed over a generous allowance, and was genuinely giad that his boy was no worse. But their great common ground, the golf course, was closed to them. Mr. Eaton played alone. igine 1 Troll al g LOOOlK