All I could see was a greasy old truck backed up in front of some low windows under the grand stand, with half a dozen young toughs in smeary blue overalls jugglin' a load of galvanized iron cans. Looked like garbage cans; smelled that way too. And the gang that was handlin' 'em--well, most of 'em had had their heads shaved, and in that rig they certainly did look like a bunch from Sing Sing. I was just nudgin' sister to move along, when Mrs. Bliss lets out this choky cry: "Wilfred!" says she. She hadn't made any mistake, either. It was sonny, all right. And you should have seen his face as he swings around and finds who's watchin' him. If it hadn't been for the bunkie who was helpin' him lift that can of sloppy stuff on to the tail of the truck, there'd been a fine spill, too. "My boy! Wilfred!" calls Mrs. Stanton Bliss, holdin' out her arms invitin' and dramatic. Now, in the first place, Wilfred was in no shape to be the party of the second part in a motherly clinch act. It's messy work, loadin' garbage cans, and he's peeled down for it. He was costumed in a pair of overalls that would have stood in the corner all by themselves, and an army undershirt with one sleeve half ripped off. In the second place, all the rest of the bunch was wearin' broad grins, and he knew it. So he don't rush over at once. Instead he steps around to the front of the truck and salutes a husky, freckled-necked young sergeant who's sittin' behind the steerin' wheel. "Family, sir," says Wilfred. "What--what'll I do?" The sergeant takes one look over his shoulder. "Oh, well," says he, "drop out until next load." Not until Wilfred had led us around the corner does he express his feelin's. "For the love of Mike, mother!" says he. "Wasn't it bad enough without your springin' that 'muh boy!' stuff? Right before all the fellows, too. Good-night!" "But, Wilfred," insists mother, "what does this mean? Why do I find you--well, like this? Oh, it's too dreadful for words. Who has done this to you--and why?" Jerky, little by little, Wilfred sketches out the answer. Army life wasn't what he'd expected. Not at all. He was sore on the whole business. He'd been let in for it, that was all. It wasn't so bad for some of the fellows, but they'd been lucky. As for him--well, he'd come here to learn to be an ambulance driver, and he had spent his first week in the kitchen, peelin' potatoes. Then, when they'd let him off that, and given him his first pass to go to town, just because he'd been a little late comin' back they'd jumped on him somethin' fierce. They'd shoved him on this garbage detail. He'd been on it ever since. "It's that mucker of a top sergeant, Quigley," says Wilfred. "He's got it in for me." Mrs. Stanton Bliss straightens out her chin dimple as she glares after the garbage truck, which is rollin' away in the distance. "Has he, indeed!" says she. "We will see about that, then." "But you must handle him easy, mother," warns Wilfred.