e Civil War. He was a drummer-boy. That's why he
didn't come to California until afterward."

"And my father went back to fight in the Civil War," Saxon said.

"And mine, too," said Billy.

They looked at each other gleefully. Again they had found a new contact.

"Well, they're all dead, ain't they?" was Bert's saturnine comment.
"There ain't no difference dyin' in battle or in the poorhouse. The
thing is they're deado. I wouldn't care a rap if my father'd been
hanged. It's all the same in a thousand years. This braggin' about folks
makes me tired. Besides, my father couldn't a-fought. He wasn't born
till two years after the war. Just the same, two of my uncles were
killed at Gettysburg. Guess we done our share."

"Just like that," Mary applauded.

Bert's arm went around her waist again.

"We're here, ain't we?" he said. "An' that's what counts. The dead are
dead, an' you can bet your sweet life they just keep on stayin' dead."

Mary put her hand over his mouth and began to chide him for his
awfulness, whereupon he kissed the palm of her hand and put his head
closer to hers.

The merry clatter of dishes was increasing as the dining-room filled up.
Here and there voices were raised in snatches of song. There were
shrill squeals and screams and bursts of heavier male laughter as the
everlasting skirmishing between the young men and girls played on. Among
some of the men the signs of drink were already manifest. At a near
table girls were calling out to Billy. And Saxon, the sense of temporary
possession already strong on her, noted with jealous eyes that he was a
favorite and desired object to them.

"Ain't they awful?" Mary voiced her disapproval. "They got a nerve. I
know who they are. No respectable girl 'd have a thing to do with them.
Listen to that!"

"Oh, you Bill, you," one of them, a buxom young brunette, was calling.
"Hope you ain't forgotten me, Bill."

"Oh, you chicken," he called back gallantly.

Saxon flattered herself that he showed vexation, and she conceived an
immense dislike for the brunette.

"Goin' to dance?" the latter called.

"Mebbe," he answered, and turned abruptly to Saxon. "Say, we old
Americans oughta stick together, don't you think? They ain't many of us
left. The country's fillin' up with all kinds of foreigners."

He talked on steadily, in a low, confidential voice, head close to hers,
as advertisement to the other girl that he was occupied.

From the next table on the