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〃My husband。 He made me promise to say good…by to Jo at home。〃
〃Jo？〃
〃Jo's my boy。 And he's going to war。 So I ran away。 I had to see
him。 I had to see him go。〃
She was dry…eyed。 Her gaze was straining up the street。
〃Why； sure；〃 said Jo。 〃Of course you want to see him。〃 And then
the crowd gave a great roar。 There came over Jo a feeling of weakness。
He was trembling。 The boys went marching by。
〃There he is；〃 Emily shrilled； above the din。 〃There he is！ There he
is！ There he〃 And waved a futile little hand。 It wasn't so much a
wave as a clutching。 A clutching after something beyond her reach。
〃Which one？ Which one； Emily？〃
〃The handsome one。 The handsome one。〃 Her voice quavered and
died。
Jo put a steady hand on her shoulder。 〃Point him out；〃 he
commanded 〃Show me。〃 And the next instant； 〃Never mind。 I see
him。〃
Somehow； miraculously； he had picked him from among the hundreds。
Had picked him as surely as his own father might have。 It was Emily's
boy。 He was marching by； rather stiffly。 He was nineteen； and fun…
loving； and he had a girl； and he didn't particularly want to go to France
andto go to France。 But more than he had hated going； he had hated
not to go。 So he marched by； looking straight ahead； his jaw set so that his
chin stuck out just a little。 Emily's boy。
Jo looked at him； and his face flushed purple。 His eyes； the hard…
boiled eyes of a Loop…hound； took on the look of a sad old man。 And
suddenly he was no longer Jo； the sport； old J。 Hertz； the gay dog。 He
was Jo Hertz； thirty； in love with life； in love with Emily； and with the
stinging blood of young manhood coursing through his veins。
Another minute and the boy had passed on up the broad streetthe fine；
flag…bedecked streetjust one of a hundred service hats bobbing in
rhythmic motion like sandy waves lapping a shore and flowing on。
Then he disappeared altogether。
Emily was clinging to Jo。 She was mumbling something； over and
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over。 〃I can't。 I can't。 Don't ask me to。 I can't let him go。
Like that。 I can't。〃
Jo said a queer thing。
〃Why； Emily！ We wouldn't have him stay home； would we？ We
wouldn't want him to do anything different； would we？ Not our boy。
I'm glad he enlisted。 I'm proud of him。 So are you glad。〃
Little by little he quieted her。 He took her to the car that was waiting；
a worried chauffeur in charge。 They said good…by； awkwardly。 Emily's
face was a red； swollen mass。
So it was that when Jo entered his own hallway half an hour later he
blinked； dazedly； and when the light from the window fell on him you saw
that his eyes were red。
Eva was not one to beat about the bush。 She sat forward in her chair；
clutching her bag rather nervously。
〃Now； look here； Jo。 Stell and I are here for a reason。 We're here to
tell you that this thing's going to stop。〃
〃Thing？ Stop？〃
〃You know very well what I mean。 You saw me at the milliner's that
day。 And night before last； Ethel。 We're all disgusted。 If you must go
about with people like that； please have some sense of decency。〃
Something gathering in Jo's face should have warned her。 But he was
slumped down in his chair in such a huddle； and he looked so old and fat
that she did not heed it。 She went on。 〃You've got us to consider。
Your sisters。 And your nieces。 Not to speak of your own〃
But he got to his feet then； shaking； and at what she saw in his face
even Eva faltered and stopped。 It wasn't at all the face of a fat； middle…
aged sport。 It was a face Jovian； terrible。
〃You！〃 he began； low…voiced； ominous。 〃You！〃 He raised a great
fist high。 〃You two murderers！ You didn't consider me； twenty years ago。
You come to me with talk like that。 Where's my boy！ You killed him；
you two； twenty years ago。 And now he belongs to somebody else。
Where's my son that should have gone marching by today？〃 He flung his
arms out in a great gesture of longing。 The red veins stood out on his
forehead。 〃Where's my son！ Answer me that； you two selfish；
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miserable women。 Where's my son！〃 Then； as they huddled together；
frightened； wild…eyed。
〃Out of my house！ Out of my house！ Before I hurt you！〃
They fled； terrified。 The door banged behind them。
Jo stood； shaking； in the center of the room。 Then he reached for a
chair； gropingly； and sat down。 He passed one moist； flabby hand over
his forehead and it came away wet。 The telephone rang。 He sat still。
It sounded far away and unimportant； like something forgotten。 But it
rang and rang insistently。 Jo liked to answer his telephone when he was
at home。
〃Hello！〃 He knew instantly the voice at the other end。
〃That you； Jo？〃 it said。
〃Yes。〃
〃How's my boy？〃
〃I'mall right。〃
〃Listen； Jo。 The crowd's coming over tonight。 I've fixed up a little
poker game for you。 Just eight of us。〃
〃I can't come tonight； Gert。〃
〃Can't！ Why not？〃
〃I'm not feeling so good。〃
〃You just said you were all right。〃
〃I AM all right。 Just kind of tired。〃
The voice took on a cooing note。 〃Is my Joey tired？ Then he shall
be all comfy on the sofa； and he doesn't need to play if he don't want to。
No； sir。〃
Jo stood staring at the black mouthpiece of the telephone。 He was
seeing a procession go marching by。 Boys； hundreds of boys； in khaki。
〃Hello！ Hello！〃 The voice took on an anxious note。 〃Are you
there？〃
〃Yes；〃 wearily。
〃Jo； there's something the matter。 You're sick。 I'm coming right
over。〃
〃No！〃 〃Why not？ You sound as if you'd been sleeping。 Look
here〃
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〃Leave me alone！〃 cried Jo； suddenly； and the receiver clacked onto
the hook。 〃Leave me alone。 Leave me alone。〃 Long after the
connection had been broken。
He stood staring at the instrument with unseeing eyes。 Then he
turned and walked into the front room。 All the light had gone out of it。
Dusk had come on。 All the light had gone out of everything。 The zest
had gone out of life。 The game was overthe game he had been playing
against loneliness and disappointment。 And he was just a tired old man。
A lonely； tired old man in a ridiculous rose…colored room that had grown；
all of a sudden； drab ｛sic｝
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That's Marriage ＇1917＇
Theresa Platt （she had been Terry Sheehan） watched her husband
across the breakfast table with eyes that smoldered。 But Orville Platt was
quite unaware of any smoldering in progress。 He was occupied with his
eggs。 How could he know that these very eggs were feeding the dull red
menace in Terry Platt's eyes？
When Orville Platt ate a soft…boiled egg he concentrated on it。 He
treated it as a great adventure。 Which； after all； it is。 Few adjuncts of
our daily life contain the element of chance that is to be found in a three…
minute breakfast egg。
This was Orville Platt's method of attack： first； he chipped off the top；
neatly。 Then he bent forward and subjected it to a passionate and
relentless scrutiny。 Straighteningpreparatory to plunging his spoon
the