CHAPTER XXII
MAKING GOOD
It was raining torrents outside, and the girls were seated in one ofthe big parlors of the Hostess House. As usual, they were knitting,and their tongues kept time to the rapid click, click, of theirneedles.
They were exceptionally thoughtful and, as Amy expressed it, "theirmood matched the weather." The war was not going as well as every onehad hoped. The dark cloud was growing darker and darker every day,and each morning paper seemed to bring more disquieting news than theone before.
"And it won't be long now," Mollie was saying, "before our boys aresent across. It's almost time for the second draft, and the campswill have to be emptied of the first troops. And when they're gone----"she bowed her head to hide the unbidden tears that were glisteningin her eyes.
"Yes, it will be terrible," said Betty, trying hard to keep thetelltale tremulousness from her voice--trying desperately to soundbrave and resigned. "But we must remember that thousands of women andgirls all over the United States are going through the same thing.And for the boys' sake, we must be cheerful."
"The boys themselves are cheerful--heaven bless them," cried Grace,in a rare burst of enthusiasm. "I never saw anything like theirspirit!"
"Isn't it wonderful?" Mollie agreed, her eyes shining through hertears. "It makes you want to shout with pride in them, and cry at thesame time."
"Yes," said Amy quietly, "and I don't think anybody who hasn't beenclose to military life, as we have been, can realize how great theAmerican army will be. It's meeting the boys day after day, seeingthem get more enthusiastic as the time comes near for them to facethose terrible guns----"
"I feel as if I wanted to go down on my knees to every boy inuniform," cried Betty, gripping the arms of her chair till theknuckles showed white. "No matter how hard we try we can't make up tothem for what they're giving up--and giving up so cheerfully. Andthey're so dear and appreciative and thankful for every little thingthat we have done for them, it makes me want to cry.
"And have you noticed," she continued, while the girls stopped theirwork to watch her, "what happens if you ask them about their homefolks? Their faces light up, and right away they begin to talk about'mother.'
"'You know,' one of them said to me just a little while ago, 'when Ifirst came to camp, I didn't exactly feel homesick, as I'd expectedto; I just felt queer and uneasy and restless. For a couple of nightsI couldn't sleep, just kept tossing and turning till reveille routedme out again. Then suddenly, one night, I found out what the matterwas. I wasn't homesick; I was just missing my mother.'
"I smiled at him, trying my best not to cry, and said: 'Home ismother, isn't it?'
"Then the boy just turned away, and I knew it was because his eyeswere misty and he was ashamed to let me see it, and when he looked atme again he was smiling a little wistfully.
"A few days after that he came up to me. 'You won't laugh, if I tellyou something?' he asked. 'On my word of honor,' I answered him.'Well,' he said, looking so dear and sheepish, I had all I could doto keep from hugging him, 'as soon as I found out what you said abouthome being mother, I just put the picture I had of her under mypillow, and honest, I've slept like a baby ever since.'"
The girls were all crying and Mollie impatiently shook a tear fromthe tip of her nose. "Betty, you never told us that before. If hismother could only know about it."
"She probably does," said Betty, wiping her eyes and taking up herknitting again. "Somehow, most mothers know those things byinstinct."
"And to think boys like that," cried Mollie, knitting fast to keeptime with her feelings, "to think boys like that have to go over tothe other side, and be mowed down by the thousands. Oh, I can'tbelieve it!"
"I guess we've all sort of closed our eyes to it, till now," saidGrace, so unlike her usual self that she had completely forgotten toeat candy for fifteen minutes. "But we can't go on like that forever.When it comes right down to us and we lose somebody we care for--"her voice broke and the girls went on knitting faster than ever,fearing a general breakdown.
"We've just got to work so hard we can't think," said Mollie withdecision, adding, a little hysterically: "It never used to be hardbefore."
"What, to keep from thinking?" asked Amy, while the other girlssmiled a little and felt better.
"Who's that coming up the walk, Betty?" Grace asked, a moment later."The glimpse I got looked like a uniform."
"It's Allen," Betty answered, waving to the splendid specimen ofmanhood who was coming up the porch two steps at a time. "He looks asif he had some good news for us. You let him in, will you, Amy?You're nearest the door."
So Amy, opening the door, admitted a six-foot cyclone, who swept herbefore him into the parlor, where she sank into a chair to get herbreath.
"Well, what in the world?" asked Mollie, round eyes on his face, ashe mopped his face and lowered himself into a seat.
"Talk about good luck," he began, beaming round upon them. "I guessthe fellows were right when they said I was falling into it lately."
"Good news, Allen?" asked Betty, leaning forward eagerly. "I knewyou had something wonderful to tell us the moment I saw you."
"Well, in the first place," said Allen, modestly putting himselflast, "Frank has been promoted to the rank of corporal."
"Oh, isn't that wonderful!" they cried together, and thereafter arosea very babel of questions as to where, when and how the promotion hadoccurred, which Allen answered one after another with equalenthusiasm.
"Frank's taken hold and worked with all his heart," he finished, "andhe simply got what's coming to him, that's all."
"But, Allen," Betty broke in, struck by a sudden thought, "you saidsomething about _your_ having run into good luck. Was it somethingthat happened to you personally, or was it just the good luck ofbeing the friend of a corporal?"
"Since I've been a corporal myself from the start," said Allen withdignity, "I don't see why----"
"Yes, yes, go on," said Mollie impatiently.
"Well," said Allen, throwing the news like a bomb into their midst,"I've been promoted to a sergeant."
"What?" the girls cried, hardly knowing whether to believe him ornot. "Are you really in earnest?"
"You're not very complimentary," he grumbled, though his eyestwinkled. "You don't suppose I'd come here and tell you a thing likethat if it weren't so, do you?"
Then arose a second babel, louder and more prolonged than the first,and it was a long time before they quieted down enough to talkcoherently.
"You see," Allen explained, "there's a chance for promotion now thatthere never was before. New men are coming in by the hundreds, andthose men have to have officers. There's really no end to the chancesif you just stick to the big game and do your level best. You're sureto win something good in the end."
"And hasn't Roy been promoted?" asked Grace. "Hasn't he been 'on thejob,' as you say?"
"You bet your life he has," Allen defended loyally. "It's just ourluck that we happened to get it; that's all. His turn will come next,you take it from me."
For a few minutes no one spoke, and only the ticking of the clock,and the regular click, click of the knitting needles broke the deepstillness. Then Allen bethought him of something.
"Saw Will, too, on the way up," he said, and at the name the girlsall put down their knitting and looked at him inquiringly. "He seemedto be immensely excited about something. Fact is, I don't think hewould even have seen me if I hadn't gotten in his way and flaggedhim. Mark my words--that boy's got something big up his sleeve. I bethe's going to surprise us all some day."
"Did he--did he--tell you anything?" asked Grace. "Anything to makeyou think that?"
"No," he answered, adding with a sincerity that brought a light ofunutterable gladness to Grace's eyes: "But I've met lots of fellowsin my business, and have learned to size them up pretty well. And ifthere was ever a brainy, plucky, true-blue fellow in this world, hisname is Will Ford!"