"Not all of them don't," said Ross, shaking his head wisely. "There's kickers and biters and shirks amongst them; but if they won't learn and can't learn, they get 'condemned.'" "And what becomes of them then?" "Why, _you_ know," answered the boy, who began to suspect that there was a moral looming in the distance of this bold generalization. "Yes," said Mother Meadows, "I know what becomes of some of them, because I've seen; and I don't think a condemned horse looks much better in the latter end of him than a condemned man." "But you can't leave them in the troop, for they'd spoil all the rest," objected the boy. "It's too much for me, dear," replied the old woman humbly. "These Coxeys are a kind of folks I don't understand." "I should think you might understand, when the troops have to go out and run 'em in! I'm on the side of the soldiers, every time." "Well, that's simple enough," said Mrs. Meadows. She was a very mild protagonist, for she could never confine herself to one side of a question. "I'm on the side of the soldiers, too. A soldier has to do what he's told, and pays with his life for it, right or wrong." "And I think it's a shame to send the beautiful clean soldiers to shove a lot of dirty hobos back where they belong." "My goodness! Hush! you'd better talk less till you get more sense to talk with," said Mrs. Meadows sternly. A man standing near, with his back to them, had turned around quickly, and she saw by his angry eye that he had overheard. She looked at him again, and knew the man. It was the boy's father. Ross had bounded away to talk to his friend Corporal Niles. "Henniker!" exclaimed Mrs. Meadows in a low voice of shocked amazement. "It don't seem as if this could be you!" "Let that be!" said Henniker roughly. "I didn't enlist by that name in this army. Who's that young son of a gun that's got so much lip on him?" "God help you! don't you know your own son?" "What? No! Has he got to be that size already?" The man's weather-beaten face turned a darker red under the week-old beard that disfigured it. He sat down on the ground, for suddenly he felt weak, and also to hide his lameness from the woman who should have hated him, but who simply pitied him instead. Her face showed a sort of motherly shame for the change that she saw in him. It was very hard to bear. He had not fully realized the change in himself till its effect upon her confronted him. He tried to bluff it off carelessly. "Bring the boy here. I have a word to say to him." "You should have said it long ago, then." Mrs. Meadows was hurt and indignant at his manner. "What has been said is said, for good and all. It's too late to unsay it now." "What do you mean by that, Mrs. Meadows? Am I the boy's father or am I not?" "You are not the father he knows. Do you think I have been teaching him to be ashamed of the name he bears?"