"You walked all the way out on the turnpike road, I suppose. Tom," he broke off suddenly, "there isn't any time to sit here and talk now; listen. It seems as if all these weeks had been wiped out and we were back up on that mountain again." "I knew you'd like it up there; I----" "Never mind that; listen. We're back just where we were that night. We can make everything all right." "Everything _is_ all right." "No, it isn't; everything _isn't_ all right--old man. Tom, there's a meeting to-night, a sort of jumble--Y. M. C. A., scouts, and I don't know what all. Ellsworth nailed me for it. I've got to give the bunch a little spiel.--Tom, I want you to come to it----" "I----" "Now, don't start that; listen. It's in the new Y. M. C. A. Hall. I know you haven't got any clothes, if that's what you want to say, and I don't care a hang about your clothes. I don't ask you to blow in with the rest of them and sit in the audience," he went on hurriedly. "But just stroll around after everything's started and the lights are down. They couldn't see you--they won't notice you. Just stand in back." "They got no use for me; they----" "This is between you and me, old man; nobody else has got anything to do with it. Go down to Mrs. What's-her-name's----" "O'Connor's," said Tom. "Go down there and wash up, if you want to--I don't care. Only promise me you'll come around. I want you to see me make a show of myself. You'll have a good laugh--you old grouch," he added, with sudden good humor, "and after it's over we'll go up to my house and have a good long talk." "I've often passed your house," said Tom. "I'm going down to camp on a milk train about two A. M. This may be the last chance for us to see each other," Roscoe still spoke hurriedly; "they're sending troops across every week, Tom." "I know they are." "When I left you up on that mountain, Tom, I promised to come right back and register; and I did it, didn't I?" "I told you nobody'd ever find out about that----" "Never mind that. Will you do something for _me_ now? Will you say you'll come?" Tom hesitated. "I always said you'd be good at making speeches, and that kind of thing, but----" Roscoe thrust his hand straight out. "Give me your hand, Tom, and say you'll come." "Maybe I will." "Say you'll come." "I'd only stand in back after they put the lights down." "Say you'll come," Roscoe persisted. "All right." "Sure, now?" "I ain't the kind that breaks my word," said Tom dully. "But besides that, I want to hear you." Roscoe held his hand tight for a full minute. Then they parted and he hurried along the River Road. He was already late, but he would probably have hurried anyway, for when the heart is dancing it is hard for the feet to move slowly. And Roscoe's heart was dancing. He could "see straight" now, all right. To be a soldier you must see straight as well as shoot straight.