XXXVI
It was night again. That small Salvation Army group was parading and singing. A young girl would soon start a long oration against drink. Now boys, gawking as boys always do, saw a shadowy form of a man slinking along from doorway to doorway, plainly watching this marching group, but also, plainly trying to stay out of sight. A halt, a song or two, and Mary Antor was soon walking towards Old Lady Flanagan’s cabin. But!! In passing big, dark City Park, a man, rushing wildly up, wrapping that frail form in a cast-iron grip, planting kiss upon kiss upon Mary’s lips, finally unwound that grip and stood stiffly in military saluting position. Mary, naturally in a bad fright, took a short, anxious, inquiring look, and instantly, all that part of City Park actually rang with a wild girlish cry:—
“Norman!!!”
“Hulloa, kiddo! Just got in, half an hour ago, on a small troop train; and, by luck, saw you marching in that group. Wow!! But you do look grand!”
“And you look grand, too, Norman; but—but—but—not drunk?”
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