He dropped into a chair and went on.

"We didn't get there for the first, but it was plenty bad enough," and
his eyes were seeing wordless sights. "The United States had declared
war on Austria December 7th, and four days later Section One was
rolling across the battlefield of Solferino.

"I was proud to be in that bunch. Talk about the flower of a country,
Uncle Bill,--we grew 'em. Six wore the Croix de Guerre--well, of course
that's often just luck." He reddened as he remembered who was one of
that six. "All of them had gone through battles a-plenty. Whole
shooting-match keen for service--no slackers and no greenhorns in that
crowd.

"We started on the twelve hundred mile trip to Milan from Paris
November 18th, and at Ventimiglia, just over the border, Italy welcomed
us. Lord, Uncle Bill," the boy laughed out, and rubbed his eyes where
tears stood. "They wouldn't look at our passports--no, sir! They opened
the gate to Italy and we rolled in like visiting princes. They showered
presents on us, those poor villagers--food, flowers--all they had.
Often didn't keep any for themselves.

"We got there December 8th. Tuned up the cars and were off again in
two or three days, to the job. They gave us a great send-off. Real
party. Two parties. First a sort of reception in a big gray courtyard
of an old palace, all dolled up with American and Italian flags. Big
bugs and speeches--and they presented us to Italy. A bugle blew and
a hundred of us in khaki--we'd been reinforced--stood at salute and
an Italian general swept into the gates with his train of plumed
Bersagliari[55-1]--sent to take us over. Then we twenty drove our
busses out with our own flags flying and pulled up again for Party
Number Two in front of the Cathedral. Finally the Mayor bid us his
prettiest good-bye, and off we drove again through the cheering crowds
and the waving flags--this time out of the city gate--to the Piave
front."

The boy rose from his chair, put on a fresh log, then turned and stood
facing me, towering over me in his young magnificence.

It flashed to me that I'd never seen him look so like his father, yet
so different. All John Donaldson's physical beauty, all his charm were
repeated in his son, but underlaid with a manliness, a force which poor
John never had.

"We were pitched into the offensive in the hottest of it," spoke the
boy. "It was thick. We were hampered by lack of workers. We wanted
Americans. Morgan had a thought.

"