Along in April, Gadsby sat finishing his morning toast as a boy, rushing in, put a "Post" on his lap with a wild, boyish gasp of:--"_My gosh_, Mayor Gadsby, _Look!!_" and Gadsby saw a word about a foot high. It was W--A--R. Lady Gadsby saw it also, slowly sinking into a chair. At that instant both Nancy and Kathlyn burst frantically in, Nancy lugging Baby Lillian, now almost two, and a big load for so small a woman, Nancy gasping out:-- "Daddy!! Must Bill and Julius and Frank and John,----" Gadsby put down his "Post" and, pulling Nancy down onto his lap, said:-- "Nancy darling, Bill and Julius and Frank and John must. Old Glory is calling, baby, and no Branton Hills boy will balk at _that_ call. It's awful, but it's a fact, now." Lady Gadsby said nothing, but Nancy and Kathlyn saw an ashy pallor on that matronly brow; and Gadsby going out without waiting for his customary kiss. For what you might call an instant, Branton Hills, in blank, black gloom, stood stock still. But not for long. Days got to flashing past, with that awful sight of girls, out to lunch, saying:-- "Four from our shop; and that big cotton mill has _forty-six_ who will go." With Virginia saying:-- "About all that our boys talk about is uniforms, pay, transportation, army corps, divisions, naval squadrons, and so on." An occasional Branton Hills politician thought that it "might blow out in a month or two;" but your Historian knows that it didn't; all of that "blowing" consisting of blasts from that military clarion, calling for mobilization. * * * * * Days! Days! Days! Finally, on May Fourth, that day of tiny Nancy's big church ritual, you know; that day, upon which any woman would look back with romantic joy, Nancy, with Kathlyn, Lady Gadsby and His Honor, stood at Branton Hills' big railway station, at which our Municipal Band was drawn up; in back of which stood, in solid ranks, this city's grand young manhood, Bill, Julius, Frank, John, Paul and Norman standing just as straight and rigid as any. As that long, long troop train got its signal to start,--but you know all about such sights, going on daily, from our Pacific coast to Atlantic docks. As it shot around a turn, and Gadsby was walking sadly toward City Hall, a Grammar School boy hurrying up to him said:-- "_Wow!!_ I wish _I_ could go to war!" "Hi!" said Gadsby. "If it isn't Kid Banks!" "Aw! Cut that kid stuff! I'm _Allan_ Banks! Son of _Councilman_ Banks!" "Oh, pardon. But you don't want to go to war, boy." "_Aw! I do too!!_" "But young boys _can't_ go to war." "I know that; and I wish this will last until I grow so I _can_ go. It's just grand! A big cannon says _Boom! Boom!_ and,--" "Sit down on this wall, boy. I want to talk to you." "All right. Shoot!" "Now look, Allan. If this war should last until you grow up, just think of how many _thousands_ of troops it would kill. How many grand, good lads it would put right out of this world."