He ordered meat and drink for them, gave them money, made a joke or two as he limped among them, yet felt an alien. He watched them wistfully, seeing for the first time their sordidness, seeing what he himself had been, more sordid than any, because of his greater opportunities. Sitting apart, he judged them, judged himself. If all the world were like these men, what kind of world would it be? "Why aren't you fellows fighting?" he asked suddenly. They stared at him. Grumbled. Why should they fight? One of them wept over it, called himself too old--. But there were young men among them. "For God's sake get out of this--let me help you get out." The General stood up, leaned on his cane. "Look here, I've done a lot of things in my time--things like this--" his arm swept out towards the table, "and now I've only one good foot--the other will never be alive again. But you young chaps, you've got two good feet--to march. Do you know what that means, to march? Left, right, left, right and step out bravely--. Yankee Doodle and your heads up, flags flying? And you sit here like this?" Two of the men had risen, young and strong. The General's cane pounded--he had their eyes! "Left, right, left, right--all over the world men are marching, and you sit here--" The years seemed to have dropped from him. His voice rang with a fire that had once drawn men after him. He had led a charge at Gettysburg, and his men had followed! And these two men would follow him. He saw the dawn of their resolve in their faces. "There's fine stuff in both of you," he said, "and the country needs you. Isn't it better to fight than to sit here? Get into my car and I'll take you down." "Aw, what's eatin' you," one of the older men growled. "What game's this? Recruitin'?" But the young men asked no questions. They came--glad to come. Roused out of a lethargy which had bound them. Waked by a ringing old voice. The General was rather quiet when he reached home. Jean and Bronson, who had suffered torments, watched him with concerned eyes. And, as if he divined it, he laid his hand over Jean's. "I did a good day's work, my dear. I got two men for the Army, and I'm going to get more--" And he did get more. He went not only in the rain, but in the warmth of the sun, when the old fruit trees bloomed along the tow path, and the backs of the mules were shining black, and the women came out on deck with their washing. And always he spoke to the men of marching feet--. Now and then he sang for them in that thin old voice whose thinness was so overlaid by the passion of his patriotism that those who listened found no flaw in it. "He has sounded forth the trumpet that has never called retreat, He is sifting forth the hearts of men before his Judgment seat, O be swift my soul to answer him, be jubilant my feet, Our God is marching on--" There was no faltering now, no fumbled words. With head up, singing--"Be jubilant, my feet--"