"Hello, stranger," says I in a blustery, seafaring voice, "you look as
if you'd been cursed at about as much as I have. What sort of an
outfit do you belong to?"
He scrutinized one of his buttons with great care and then told me all
about himself.
"I'm a home guard, you know," he added bitterly, "all we do is to
escort people. I've escorted the Blue Devils, the Poilus, the
Australians, mothers of enlisted men, mothers of men who would have
enlisted if they could, Boy Scouts and loan workers until my dogs are
jolly well near broken down on me. Golly, I wish I was young enough to
enjoy a quiet night's sleep in the trenches for a change."
Later I saw him gloomily surveying the world from the window of a
passing cab. He was evidently through for the time being at least.
_April 30th._ I took my bar-keeping pal home over the last week-end
liberty. It was a mistake. He admits it himself. Mother will never
have him in the house again. Mother could never get him in the house
again. He fears her. The first thing he did was to mix poor dear
grandfather a drink that caused the old gentleman to forget his game
leg which had been damaged in battles, ranging anywhere from the
Mexican to the Spanish wars, according to grandfather's mood at the
time he is telling the story, but which I believe, according to a
private theory of mine, was really caught in a folding bed.
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