For three weeks more we heard the faithful signal, at its new place. A little more faintly, but always punctual, always the same. And again the men began to whistle at their work. By then the job was nearly finished. In two or three weeks more we should be leaving, and the whole crowd began to allege a touch of regret. They protested it was because the old place was so beautiful, but privately I think George Roberts and his tooting had something to do with the homesickness. To whatever new place we might go, however pleasant it might be, there was going to be a trifle that was lacking. Then again a strange thing happened. Again the whistle stopped. For four days it was silent. “Family jar already!” came the usual good-natured jeer. “She’s flung a plate and crippled his whistle arm.” “Guess you’d better find out what’s the matter, Gordon,” a third man recommended. “I will,” said Gordon. That evening he returned from the village without the smile. Nevertheless, as he was still plodding up the long driveway, his head down, his step slow, we actually heard the whistle as we sat waiting for Gordon under the portico. There was no mistaking it. And yet its note seemed different; there was a new tone to it, something like Gordon’s air. And it seemed to come from still farther away. Gordon paused as he heard it, and stood still, with his hat in his hand, till it died away. Then he came up the steps and sat down. We all leaned toward him. “She fell ill,” he said. “They left her in the little cemetery down the line. She’d always been delicate. And I suppose that’s where he’s whistling now. To—to let her know he’s safe.” THE WILLOW WALK _By_ SINCLAIR LEWIS From _The Saturday Evening Post_ _Copyright, 1918, by The Curtis Publishing Company._ _Copyright, 1919, by Sinclair Lewis._ I From the drawer of his table desk Jasper Holt took a pane of window glass. He laid a sheet of paper on the glass and wrote, “Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party.” He studied his round business-college script, and rewrote the sentence in a small finicky hand, that of a studious old man. Ten times he copied the words in that false pinched writing. He tore up the paper, burned the fragments in his large ash tray and washed the delicate ashes down his stationary washbowl. He replaced the pane of glass in the drawer, tapping it with satisfaction. A glass underlay does not retain an impression.