I
_Note._--Action takes place about the year 1915.
Ralston strode briskly up Fifth Avenue, conscious all about him of the
electric pressure of War. It was six o'clock--the hour when the hard
outlines of the tops of office buildings and the prosaic steeples of
contemporary religion, flushed with rose, and "fretted with golden
fire," melt with a glow of unreality into the darkening blue. Here and
there in the eastern sky tiny points trembled elusively, and a molten
crescent followed him along the housetops, its pale disk growing each
instant brighter.
Wheel traffic on the avenue, between the hours of nine and seven, had
been suspended, and many pedestrians preferred the icy inequality of the
street to the crowds upon the pavements. For the most part the movement
was northward, meeting at the corners transverse streams of clerks and
salesgirls jostling one another, arm in arm, down the side streets. Here
and there could be seen an officer in service coat, with sword dangling
beneath, and occasional knots of soldier boys in the uniform of the
National Guard.
A little lad with an air of vast importance ran just ahead of Ralston,
unlocking the bases of the electric lights and, in some mysterious way,
turning them on. To his intense gratification he had succeeded in
distancing his fellow across the way by half a block. Above the shuffle
of feet could be heard the cries of the newsmen, "Extra! Extra!
President calls for twenty new regiments! Latest extra! Twelfth to the
front." These, clutching huge bundles of papers to their breasts, hurled
themselves against the tide of humanity, appearing from all directions
and sweeping down like vultures upon any individual wayfarer so
unfortunate as to have his hand momentarily in his pocket. Their bundles
quickly disappeared. Then they would run panting to the corners where
the paper wagons were in waiting. It was a scene full of inspiration to
Ralston, but it impressed him that, after all, the crowd seemed
primarily interested in its own affairs--its business, its cold ears,
its suppers.
For the newspapers the war had created a fierce, insatiable public maw.
Circulations sprang by leaps into the millions. Extras followed one
another by minutes. For the people in the shops it meant night work and
longer hours; for society, something new to talk about; for the
theaters, packed houses which roared at topical songs in which "war"
rhymed with "bore," "rations" with "nations," "company" with "bump any,"
"foes" with "toes," "sword" with "board," and gloried in "Eddie" Foy and
"Jo" Weber dressed as major generals. "Light Cavalry" and "Dixie" had
superseded all other selections upon the musical programmes, and special
rows of seats were reserved for "officers in uniform." The bars were
jammed, traveling men sat in more thickly serried ranks than usual in
the hotel windows, and Slosson's Billiard Parlors were lined with
standing spectators. The commercial life of the city boiled over. Only
the brokers came home early.
As Ralston entered Madison Square he found himself entangled in a dense
throng wedged around an improvised scaffolding, upon which was displayed
the electric-lighted bulletin of one of the big dailies. A man in a
yellow-and-black-striped sweater was rapidly painting with a brush upon
a blackboard in some white liquid the latest marching orders:
"_Twelfth Regiment leaves via Penn. R. R. to-morrow 7 A.M._"
"_Terrible Riots in Tokio._"
"_R. W. Ralston appointed Second Assistant Secretary of
the Navy._"
As he fought his way through the crush he heard his name repeated on all
sides, and a strange exaltation took possession of him. He had a curious
desire to call out: "Yes. I'm Ralston! The Ralston up there! I'm he!
That one! I'm Ralston!"
He felt like a prince suddenly called from seclusion to rule his people.
He was going to do things which these garlic-breathing folk would spell
out and marvel at. How often his name would flash across the square or
play duskily upon the curtains at the theaters, linked with generals and
"fighting" admirals. He laughed with the joy of it, that he, the
settled-down man of the world, the hunter, the manager of estates, the
student of literature, the lover of poetry, was going to play the
popular hero.
He broke through the outer ring of the crowd and made for the park. A
huge flag draped the porch of the Fifth Avenue Hotel. The flush in the
west had faded to a streaky white and the stars had sprung from behind
their curtains. A white beam of light played steadily from the tower of
the Garden into the north. When it should swing to the south actual
hostilities would have commenced. All the windows in the office
buildings gleamed with activity. As he looked back he could see the man
in the sweater erasing his name with a sponge, and his heart sank with
momentary disappointment. Some new thing was coming over the wires hot
with the fire of war. At the same moment he heard up the avenue the
faint tapping of drums and the shriek of the fifes.
A line of mounted police burst into the square. The throng in front of
the bulletin board surged over to the park. Then with a clash of cymbals
and a prolonged rattle from the drums a full band burst into "There'll
be a Hot Time in the Old Town To-night." The regimental flags came into
view. In the light of the stars, in the dying of the day, in the moment
of his exaltation, Ralston recognized the colors of his old regiment.
Had he chosen he might have been marching at the head of his company
even then. The crowd, cheering, forced him to the curb and into the
street. With brimming eyes he doffed his hat and saluted the colors.
As he did so a sudden wild yell went up from the multitude. From one
side of the square to the other reigned pandemonium. The very sound of
the band was drowned in the uproar. From the top of the Flatiron
Building a stream of rockets broke into the sky, and with a single
movement the throng turned and gazed tensely at the Garden Tower, as the
white shaft of light slowly swung into the south.