[Illustration]
The pavement in front of Independence Hall was a gorgeous jumble of
colours. The great silken flags of the Allies, carried by vividly
costumed ladies, burned and flapped in the wind. On a pedestal stood the
Goddess of Liberty, in rich white draperies that seemed fortunately of
sufficient texture to afford some warmth, for the air was cool. She
graciously turned round for Walter Crail, the photographer of our
contemporary, the _Evening Public Ledger_, to take a shot at her.
Down Chestnut Street came a rising tide of cheers. A squadron of mounted
police galloped by. Then the First City Troop, with shining swords.
Fred Eckersburg, the State House engineer, was fidgeting excitedly
inside the hall, in a new uniform. This was Fred's greatest day, but we
saw that he was worried about Martha Washington, the Independence Hall
cat. He was apprehensive lest the excitement should give her a fit or a
palsy. Independence Hall is no longer the quiet old place Martha used to
enjoy before the war.
The Police Band struck up "Hail to the Chief." Yells and cheers burst
upward from the ground like an explosion. Here he was, standing in the
car. There was the famous chin, the Sam Browne belt, the high laced
boots with spurs. Even the tan gloves carried in the left hand. There
was the smile, without which no famous man is properly equipped for
public life. There was Governor Sproul's placid smile, too, but the
Mayor seemed too excited to smile. Rattle, rattle, rattle went the
shutters of the photographers. Up the scarlet lane of carpet came the
general. His manner has a charming, easy grace. He saluted each one of
the fair ladies garbed in costumes of our Allies, but taking care not to
linger too long in front of any one of them lest any embracing should
get started. A pattering of tiger lilies or some such things came
dropping down from above. He passed into the hall, which was cool and
smelt like a wedding with a musk of flowers.
While the Big Chief was having a medal presented to him inside the hall
we managed to scuttle round underneath the grand stand and take up a
pencil of vantage just below the little pulpit where the general was to
speak. Here the crowd groaned against a bulwark of stout policemen.
Philadelphia cops, bless them, are the best tempered in the world. (How
Boston must envy us.) Genially two gigantic bluecoats made room against
the straining hawser for young John Fisher, aged eleven, of 332
Greenwich Street. John is a small, freckle-faced urchin. It was amusing
to see him thrusting his eager little beezer between the vast, soft,
plushy flanks of two patrolmen. He had been there over two hours waiting
for just this adventure. Then, to assert the equality of the sexes,
Mildred Dubivitch, aged eleven, and Eva Ciplet, aged nine, managed to
insert themselves between the chinks in the line of cops. An old lady
more than eighty years old was sitting placidly in a small chair just
inside the ropes. She had been in the square more than five hours, and
the police had found her a seat. "Are you going to put Pershing's name
in, too?" asked John as we noted his address.
Independence Square never knew a more thrilling fifteen minutes. The
trees were tossing and bending in the thrilling blue air. There was a
bronzy tint in their foliage, as though they were putting on olive drab
in honour of the general. Great balloons of silver clouds scoured across
the cobalt sky. At one minute to 11 Pershing appeared at the top of the
stand. The whole square, massed with people, shook with cheers.
Had it been any other man we would have said the general was frightened.
He came down the aisle of the stand with his delightful, easy, smiling
swing; but he looked shrewdly about, with a narrow-eyed, puckered gaze.
He was plainly a little flabbergasted. He seemed taken aback by the
greatness of Philadelphia's voice. He said something to himself. On his
lips it looked like "What the deuce," or something of similar purport.
He sat down on a chair beside Governor Sproul. Not more than four feet
away, amazed at our own audacity, we peered over the floor of the stand.
He was paler than we expected. He looked a bit tired. Speaking as a
father, we were pleased to note the absence of Warren, who was (we hope)
getting a good sleep somewhere. We had a good look at the renowned chin,
which is well worth study. It must be a hard chin to shave. It juts
upward, reaching a line exactly below the brim of his cap. Below his
crescent moustache there is no lower lip visible: it is tucked and
folded in by the rising thrust of the jaw. It is this which gives him
the "grim" aspect which every reader of the papers hears about. He is
grim, there's no doubt about it, with the grimness of a man going
through a tough ordeal. "I can see him all right," squeaked little John
Fisher, "but he doesn't see me." The first two rows of seats at the
right of the aisle were crammed with generals, two-star and three-star.
From our lowly station we could see a grand panorama of mahogany leather
boots and the flaring curves of riding breeches. It was a great day for
Sam Browne. The thought came to us that has reached us before. The
higher you go in the A. E. F. the more the officers are tailored after
the English manner. It is the finest proof of international cousinship.
When England and America wear the same kind of clothes, alliance is knit
solid.
Pershing sat with his palms on his knees. He looked worried. There was a
wavering crease down his lean cheeks. The plumply genial countenance of
Governor Sproul next to him was an odd contrast to that dry, hard face.
The bell in the tower tolled eleven times. He stood up for the
photographers. Walter Crail, appearing from somewhere, sprang up on the
parapet facing the general. "Look this way!" he shouted as the general
turned toward some movie men. That will be Walter's first cry when he
gets to heaven, or wherever. Mayor Smith's face was pallid with
excitement. His nicely draped trouserings, which were only six inches
from our notebook, quivered slightly as he said fifteen words of
introduction.
As Pershing stood up to speak the crowd surged forward. The general was
worried. "Don't, don't! Somebody will get hurt!" he called sharply. Then
Mayor Smith surged forward also and said something to the police about
watching the crowd.
The general took off his cap. Holding it in his left hand (with the
gloves) he patted his close-cropped hair nervously. He frowned. He began
to speak.
The speech has already been covered by our hated rivals. We will not
repeat it, save to say that it was as crisp, clean-cut, and pointed as
his chin. He was nervous, as we could see by the clenching and
unclenching of his hands. His voice is rather high. We liked him for not
being a suave and polished speaker. He gestured briskly with a pointing
forefinger, and pronounced the word _patriotic_ with a short
A--"pattriotic." Later he stumbled over it again and got it out as
_patterotism_. We liked him again for that. He doesn't have to pronounce
it, anyway. We liked him best of all for the unconscious slip he made.
"This reception," he said, "I understand is for the splendid soldiery of
America that played such an important part in the war with our Allies."
A respectful ripple of laughter passed over the stand at this, but he
did not notice it. He was fighting too hard to think what to say next.
We liked him, too, for saying "such an important part." A man who had
been further away from the fighting would have said that it was America,
alone and unaided, that won the war. He is just as we have hoped he
would be: a plain, blunt man. We have heard that he is going to enter
the banking business. We'd like to have an account at that bank.