The shyness and the smile seemed to sink out of them. His
glance had caught sight of a slender, black-draped figure standing far
back from the welcoming crowd--the figure of a young woman whose fingers
clasped the chubby hand of a boy about three years old. For an instant
Billy stood voiceless, his eyes staring, his mouth twitching nervously,
his hands rigid and icy.
"Come on! Come on, fellows!" shouted the boys, as the crowd surged
closer about him, and friendly hands seized him by arm and shoulder.
But he moved not a step.
"Why, Billy, what's up?" exclaimed a dozen excited voices. "Come on! The
carriages are waiting to start the parade! The band's getting in line.
Hurry up! Hurry up!"
Then Billy spoke. His voice came, shaky, as in the old, gun-shy days;
but quietly as he spoke, the words seemed to reach across the whole
station platform.
"Boys! Oh, boys! There's poor Jack Morrison's wife and the little lad he
sent his love to!"
The crowd hushed its gay clamor and every head turned towards the
woman in black and the chubby child.
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