And when, after seven speeches and such applause as he had never dreamed of, John Benton was called to the flag-draped stand to say a few words to his friends and neighbors, he went with a sinking heart. He looked at ten thousand faces, so hushed and listening that he could hear his own breath; and for so long a moment he was speechless, staring at the throng, that a voice from far out yelled: “Atta boy, John! Tell us how you licked the Huns!” John cleared his voice and a man yelled: “_Louder!_” and another shouted: “Atta boy, John!” “Friends and neighbors,” said John at last, “I am grateful for this welcome.” A hand clapped and then the great throng roared with applause that made the rostrum tremble. A thousand automobile horns picked up the greeting and rolled it in thunderous volume, and for five minutes John waited, with the tremendous welcome like madness in his ears. “I appreciate your kindness,” said John, when silence fell again, “and all that you have done for me. But war, my friends, is not what you seem to think it is.” He paused and licked his dry lips and the audience waited. When he spoke again, those sitting close by were startled by his vehemence. “War, my friends, is murder. We soldiers learned that the German soldiers were not our enemy. Maybe it was a good war, fought in a good cause, and maybe it was not. I don’t know. All I know is that I’m sick of war and I won’t ever fight in another war and now I want peace and I want to forget. And—well, I guess that’s about all I have to say.” There was no applause now. There was only stunned silence and then a low murmur that was like that of rage, gentle and baffled. Private John Benton had spoken simply from his heart, little suspecting that his words were to lay waste to his life.