lly
they lost Cora and Scotty without having been conscious of their loss.

Their talk? The girls and boys that each knew; the day's happenings at
factory and express office; next Wednesday night's dance up in the
Chute; and always the possibility of Chuck's leaving the truck and
assuming the managership of the office.

"Don't let this go any further, see? But I heard it straight that old
Benke is going to be transferred to Fond du Lac. And if he is, why, I
step in, see? Benke's got a girl in Fondy, and he's been pluggin' to
get there. Gee, maybe I won't be glad when he does!" A little
silence. "Will you be glad, Tess? Hm?"

Tess felt herself glowing and shivering as the big hand closed more
tightly on her arm. "Me? Why, sure I'll be pleased to see you get a
job that's coming to you by rights, and that'll get you better pay, and
all."

But she knew what he meant, and he knew she knew.

No more of that now. Chuck--gone. Scotty--gone. All the boys at the
watchworks, all the fellows in the neighborhood--gone. At first she
hadn't minded. It was exciting. You kidded them at first: "Well,
believe me, Chuck, if you shoot the way you play ball, you're a gone
goon already."

"All you got to do, Scotty, is to stick that face of yours up over the
top of the trench and the Germans'll die of fright and save you wasting
bullets."

There was a great knitting of socks and sweaters and caps. Tessie's
big-knuckled, capable fingers made you dizzy, they flew so fast. Chuck
was outfitted as for a polar expedition. Tess took half a day off to
bid him good-by. They marched down Grand Avenue, that first lot of
them, in their everyday suits and hats, with their shiny yellow
suitcases and their pasteboard boxes in their hands, sheepish,
red-faced, awkward. In their eyes, though, a certain look. And so off
for Camp Sherman, their young heads sticking out of the car windows in
clusters--black, yellow, brown, red. But for each woman on the depot
platform there was just one head. Tessie saw a blurred blond one with
a misty halo around it. A great shouting and waving of handkerchiefs:

"Good-by! Good-by! Write, now! Be sure! Mebbe you can get off in a
week, for a visit. Good-by! Good----"

They were gone. Their voices came back to the crowd on the depot
platform--high, clear young voices; almost like the voices of children,
shouting.

Well, you wrote letters--fat, bulging letters--and in turn you received