lfred on fatigue. Does that
mean he is resting?"

"Not exactly," says I.

About then sister Marion begins to exhibit jumpy emotions.

"Mother! Mother!" says she, starin' straight ahead. "Look!"

All I could see was a greasy old truck backed up in front of some low
windows under the grand stand, with half a dozen young toughs in smeary
blue overalls jugglin' a load of galvanized iron cans. Looked like
garbage cans; smelled that way too. And the gang that was handlin'
'em--well, most of 'em had had their heads shaved, and in that rig they
certainly did look like a bunch from Sing Sing.

I was just nudgin' sister to move along, when Mrs. Bliss lets out this
choky cry:

"Wilfred!" says she.

She hadn't made any mistake, either. It was sonny, all right. And you
should have seen his face as he swings around and finds who's watchin'
him. If it hadn't been for the bunkie who was helpin' him lift that can
of sloppy stuff on to the tail of the truck, there'd been a fine spill,
too.

"My boy! Wilfred!" calls Mrs. Stanton Bliss, holdin' out her arms
invitin' and dramatic.

Now, in the first place, Wilfred was in no shape to be the party of the
second part in a motherly clinch act. It's messy work, loadin' garbage
cans, and he's peeled down for it. He was costumed in a pair of overalls
that would have stood in the corner all by themselves, and an army
undershirt with one sleeve half ripped off.

In the second place, all the rest of the bunch was wearin' broad grins,
and he knew it. So he don't rush over at once. Instead he steps around
to the front of the truck and salutes a husky, freckled-necked young
sergeant who's sittin' behind the steerin' wheel.

"Family, sir," says Wilfred. "What--what'll I do?"

The sergeant takes one look over his shoulder.

"Oh, well," says he, "drop out until next load."

Not until Wilfred had led us around the corner does he express his
feelin's.

"For the love of Mike, mother!" says he. "Wasn't it bad enough without
your springin' that 'muh boy!' stuff? Right before all the fellows,
too. Good-night!"

"But, Wilfred," insists mother, "what does this mean? Why do I find
you--well, like this? Oh, it's too dreadful for words. Who has done this
to you--and why?"

Jerky, little by little, Wilfred sketches out the answer. Army life
wasn't what he'd expected. Not at all. He was sore on the whole
business. He'd been let in for it, that was all. It wasn't so bad for
some of the fellows, b