uspended by a
white ribbon from a bar of the same metal. Upon the breast of Penrod
was a decoration precisely similar.

"'Lo, Penrod," said Sam. "What you goin' to do?"

"Nothin'."

"I got mine on," said Sam.

"I have, too," said Penrod. "I wouldn't take a hundred dollars for
mine."

Each glanced pleasantly at the other's medal. They faced each other
without shame. Neither had the slightest sense of hypocrisy either in
himself or in his comrade. On the contrary!

Penrod's eyes went from Sam's medal back to his own; thence they
wandered, with perhaps a little disappointment, to the lifeless street
and to the empty yards and spectatorless windows of the neighborhood.
Then he looked southward toward the busy heart of the town, where
multitudes were.

"Let's go down and see what time it is by the court-house clock," said
Penrod.

MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN ANDREWS

"American, Sir!"[A]

"Dear Uncle Bill:" (And why he should have called me "Uncle Bill,"
Heaven only knows. I was not his uncle and almost never had I been
addressed as "Bill." But he chose the name, without explanation, from
the first.) "Dear Uncle Bill: Where am I going to in vacation? The
fellows ask. Their fathers come to Commencement and take them home. I'm
the only one out, because my father's dead. And I haven't anybody to
belong to. It would be great if you'd come. Yours Sincerely--John."

[A] Copyright, 1919, by the American National Red Cross.

I threw the letter in the scrap-basket and an hour later fished it out.
I read it over. I--go to a school commencement! Not if I knew it! The
cheek of the whippersnapper! I had not even seen him; he might be any
sort of wild Indian; he might expect me to "take him home" afterwards.
Rather _not_! I should give him to understand that I would pay his
bills and--well, yes--I would send him to a proper place in vacations;
but be bothered by him personally I would not. Fishing trips to Canada
interrupted by a child! Unthinkable. I would write to that effect.

I sat down to my orderly desk and drew out paper. I began: "Dear John."
Then I stopped. An unwelcome vision arose of a small boy who was "the
only one out." "My father's dead." Thirty years rolled back, and I saw
the charming boy, a cousin, who had come to be this lad's father. I
turned my head at that thought, as long ago I had turned it every
morning when I waked to look at him, the beautiful youngster of my
adoration, sleeping across th