"Say!! If this scrap stops, and a _big_ war starts,--_Aha_, boy! You
just watch Allan Banks! Son of Councilman Banks!!" and a small fist was
pounding viciously on an also small bosom.
"By golly!" said Gadsby, walking away, "that's Tomorrow talking!"
* * * * *
So now this history will drift along; along through days and months;
days and months of that awful gnawing doubt; actually a paradox, for
it was a "conscious coma;" mornings on which Branton Hills' icy blood
shrank from looking at our city's "Post," for its casualty list was
rapidly--too rapidly,--growing. Days and days of our girlhood and
womanhood rolling thousands of long, narrow cotton strips; packing
loving gifts from many a pantry; Nancy and Kathlyn thinking constantly
of Frank and John; Lucy almost down and out from worrying about Paul;
Kathlyn knowing just how Julius is missing his Hall of Natural History,
and how its staff is praying for him; Nancy's radio shut down _tight_,
for so much as a thought of Station KBH was as a thrust of a sword.
Days. Days. Days of shouting orators, blaring bands, troops from far
away pausing at our big railway station, as girls, going through long
trains of cars, took doughnuts and hot drinks. In Gadsby's parlor
window hung that famous "World War flag" of nothing but stars; nobody
knowing at what instant a _gold_ star would show upon it. A star for
Bill; a star for Julius. Ah, Bill! Branton Hills' fop! Bill Gadsby now
in an ill-fitting and un-stylish khaki uniform.
Gadby's mansion had no brilliant night lights, now; just his parlor
lamp and a small light or two in hallways or on stairways. Only our
Mayor and his Lady, now worrying, worrying, worrying; but both of good,
staunch old Colonial stock; and "carrying on" with good old Plymouth
Rock stability; and Nancy's baby, Lillian, too young to ask why Grandma
"wasn't hungry," now; and didn't laugh so much.
Kathlyn got into our big hospital, this studious young lady's famous
biological and microscopic ability holding out an opportunity for most
practical work; for Branton Hills' shot-torn boys would soon start
drifting in. And thus it was; with Lucy, Sarah and Virginia inspiring
Branton Hills' womanhood to knit, knit, knit! You saw knitting on many
a porch; knitting in railway trains; knitting during band music in City
Park; knitting in shady arbors out at our big zoo; at many a woman's
club,--and,--_actually_, knitting _in church!!_ Finally a big factory,
down by our railway station, put out a call for "anybody, man or woman,
who wants to work on munitions;" and many a dainty Branton Hills girl
sat at big, unfamiliar stamping, punching, grinding, or polishing
outfits; tiring frail young backs and straining soft young hands;
knowing that this factory's output might,--and probably would,--rob a
woman across that big Atlantic of a husband or son,--but, still, it is
war!
Gadsby, smoking on his ivy-clad porch, as his Lady was industriously
knitting, said, in a sort of soliloquy:--
"War! That awful condition which a famous military man in command of a
division, long ago, said was synonymous with Satan and all his cohorts!
War! That awful condition of human minds coming down from way, _way_
back of all history; that vast void during which sympathy was not
known; during which animals fought with tooth, claw or horn; that vast
void during which wounds had no soothing balm, until thirst, agony or a
final swoon laid low a gigantic mammoth, or a tiny, gasping fawn! But
now, again, in this grand day of Man's magically growing brain, this
day of kindly crooning to infants in cribs; kindly talks to boys and
girls in school; and blood-tingling orations from thousands of pulpits
upon that Holy Command: 'Thou Shalt Not Kill,' now, _again_, Man is out
to kill his own kind." And Lady Gadsby could only sigh.