resentment. "Say, looka here!"

The little fists kept up their frantic beating and pushing. And a
voice--a choked, high little voice--cried, "Let me by! I can't see!
You MAN, you! You big fat man! My boy's going by--to war--and I can't
see! Let me by!"

Jo scrooged around, still keeping his place. He looked down. And
upturned to him in agonized appeal was the face of Emily. They stared
at each other for what seemed a long, long time. It was really only
the fraction of a second. Then Jo put one great arm firmly around
Emily's waist and swung her around in front of him. His great bulk
protected her. Emily was clinging to his hand. She was breathing
rapidly, as if she had been running. Her eyes were straining up the
street.

"Why, Emily, how in the world----!"

"I ran away. Fred didn't want me to come. He said it would excite me
too much."

"Fred?"

"My husband. He made me promise to say good-by to Jo at home."

"Jo?"

"Jo's my boy. And he's going to war. So I ran away. I had to see
him. I had to see him go."

She was dry-eyed. Her gaze was straining up the street.

"Why, sure," said Jo. "Of course you want to see him." And then the
crowd gave a great roar. There came over Jo a feeling of weakness. He
was trembling. The boys went marching by.

"There he is," Emily shrilled, above the din. "There he is! There he
is! There he----" And waved a futile little hand. It wasn't so much a
wave as a clutching. A clutching after something beyond her reach.

"Which one? Which one, Emily?"

"The handsome one. The handsome one." Her voice quavered and died.

Jo put a steady hand on her shoulder. "Point him out," he commanded
"Show me." And the next instant, "Never mind. I see him."

Somehow, miraculously, he had picked him from among the hundreds. Had
picked him as surely as his own father might have. It was Emily's boy.
He was marching by, rather stiffly. He was nineteen, and fun-loving,
and he had a girl, and he didn't particularly want to go to France
and--to go to France. But more than he had hated going, he had hated
not to go. So he marched by, looking straight ahead, his jaw set so
that his chin stuck out just a little. Emily's boy.

Jo looked at him, and his face flushed purple. His eyes, the
hard-boiled eyes of a Loop-hound, took on the look of a sad old man.
And suddenly he was no longer Jo, the sport; old J. Hertz, the gay dog.
He was Jo Hertz, thirty, in love with l