Albert drew a long breath. "By George!" he exclaimed. "By George,
Grandfather, this looks good to me!"

It might not have looked as good to another person. It was raining, the
long stretches of salt marsh were windswept and brown and bleak. In the
distance Cape Cod Bay showed gray and white against a leaden sky. The
drops ran down the dingy car windows.

Captain Zelotes understood, however. He nodded.

"It used to look good to me when I was bound home after a v'yage," he
observed. "Well, son, I cal'late your grandma and Rachel are up to the
depot by this time waitin' for you. We ain't due for pretty nigh an hour
yet, but I'd be willin' to bet they're there."

Albert smiled. "My, I do want to see them!" he said.

"Shouldn't wonder a mite if they wanted to see you, boy. Well, I'm kind
of glad I shooed that reception committee out of the way. I presumed
likely you'd rather have your first day home to yourself--and us."

"I should say so! Newspaper reporters are a lot of mighty good fellows,
but I hope I never see another one. . . . That's rather ungrateful, I
know," he added, with a smile, "but I mean it--just now."

He had some excuse for meaning it. The death of Albert Speranza, poet
and warrior, had made a newspaper sensation. His resurrection and return
furnished material for another. Captain Zelotes was not the only person
to meet the transport at the pier; a delegation of reporters was there
also. Photographs of Sergeant Speranza appeared once more in print. This
time, however, they were snapshots showing him in uniform, likenesses
of a still handsome, but less boyish young man, thinner, a scar upon
his right cheek, and the look in his eyes more serious, and infinitely
older, the look of one who had borne much and seen more. The reporters
found it difficult to get a story from the returned hero. He seemed to
shun the limelight and to be almost unduly modest and retiring, which
was of itself, had they but known it, a transformation sufficiently
marvelous to have warranted a special "Sunday special."

"Will not talk about himself," so one writer headed his article. Gertie
Kendrick, with a brand-new ring upon her engagement finger, sniffed as
she read that headline to Sam Thatcher, who had purchased the ring. "Al
Speranza won't talk about himself!" exclaimed Gertie. "Well, it's the
FIRST time, then. No wonder they put it in the paper."

But Albert would not talk, claiming that he had done nothing worth
talki