“There’s another thing,” said the Mayor, very profoundly. “If you take this job we’re offering you, Oliver, it’s bound to lead to something better. I don’t mind telling you that I’m not going to be a candidate for re-election. I’ve got two years more to serve and then I’m through. This here town needs a young, active, progressive man for mayor. Some of us have been talking things over and we’ve about decided that we know the feller that ought to step into my shoes. He is a young man of vast experience, education, integrity, ability, and he’s a good Republican—at least, his father is. My shoes are pretty good-sized, but that’s a blessing. No matter who steps into ’em, they’re not likely to pinch. What size shoes do you wear, Oliver?” “Sh!” hissed Mr. Baxter. “The parson’s waiting to bless the food.” The host did not speak again until near the end of the meal. He was deeply pre-occupied. “What is this plan of yours?” he suddenly asked, breaking in on Mr. Belding’s windy eulogy of the feast prepared by three of the “best cooks in the universe.” Young Oliver started. “Hadn’t we better leave that till we’re alone—” “No; let’s have it now,” said old Oliver testily. “Unless it’s something you’re ashamed of,” he amended, bending his gaze upon his son. “I certainly am not ashamed of it.” A trace of irony, unintentional to be sure, crept into his voice. “I suppose you know there is a war going on?” His eyes swept the circle of listeners. “Well, it’s kind of leaked out down our way,” spoke Mr. Link dryly. “Damn the Kaiser,” said Mr. Belding, with feeling. “Thank God, they turned him back at the Marne,” said Mr. Sage, speaking for the first time in many minutes. “I know what you are planning to do, Oliver,” cried Jane, paling. “Yes,” he said, nodding his head. “You would know. You’re young enough to know, Jane.” “You are going over there to fight,” she cried, a thrill in her voice. “Right you are. I’m going over in February with the Canadians. It’s all settled. I’m to have my old job back when the war is over.” Deep silence followed the announcement. Mr. Baxter sat with his lips working, his Adam’s apple rising and falling in quick spasmodic jerks. Jane put her hand to her throat as if to release something that had got caught there and was stifling her. “But it’s not our war,” said Mr. Sikes at last. “It’s everybody’s war,” spoke young Oliver out of the very depths of his soul. “We will be in it some day. We can’t keep out of it. But I can’t wait. I’m going over now. Oh, I’ll come back, never fear. No chance of me being killed by a German bullet.” Here he grinned boyishly. “You see, Uncle Joe, I’ve just got to pull through alive and well, so that I can be hung when my time comes.” CHAPTER IX HOME FROM THE WAR