im why he don't buck up on his drill,
keep his equipment clean, and shift that potato peelin' work to some of
the new squads.

"Course, I don't spill any of this to Mrs. Mears. Poor soul! She's got
troubles enough, right in her joints. Rheumatism. Uh-huh. Most of the
time she has to get around in a wheel chair. Ain't that fierce? And she
was mighty nervy about sendin' Stubby off. Wouldn't let him say a word
about exemption. No, sir! 'Never mind me, Edgar,' says she. 'You kill a
lot of Huns. I'll get along somehow.' That's talkin', ain't it? And her
livin' with a sister-in-law that has a disposition like a green parrot!

"So I can't find much fault with her when she sort of overdoes the fond
mother act. Seems to me they might let him off now and then, even if he
does miss a few bugle calls, or forgets some of the rules and
regulations. And this bug of hers about wonderin' when and how what he's
doin' for his country is goin' to be reco'nized proper--Well, I don't
debate that with her at all. For one thing I don't get just exactly what
she wants; whether it's for the President to write her a special letter
of thanks, or for Mr. Baker to make Stubby a captain or something right
off. Anyway, she don't feel that Edgar's bein' treated right. He ain't
even had his name in the papers and only a few of the neighbors seem to
know he's a hero. Yep, it's foolish of her, I expect, but I let her
unload it all on me without dodgin'. I've even promised to see what can
be done about it. I--I'd been thinkin', sir, about askin' you."

"Eh?" says I, "Me? Oh, I couldn't think of a thing."

"But if I could, sir," goes on Miss Casey, "would--would you help out a
little? She's an old lady, you know, and all crippled up, and Stubby
he's all she's got left and----"

"Why, sure," I breaks in. "I'd do what I could."

I throws it off casual as I'm grabbin' my hat on my way out to lunch.
And I supposed that would be all there'd be to it. But I hadn't got
more'n half a line on Miss Casey. She's no easy quitter, that young
lady. Having let me in on her little affair, she seems to think it's no
more'n right I should be kept posted. A day or so later she lugs in a
picture of Private Mears, one of the muddy printed post-card effects
such as these roadside tripod artists take of the buddy boys around the
camps.

"That's him," says she. "Looks kind of swell in the uniform, don't he?"

It was a fact. Stubby not only looks swell--but swelling. And it