his weakness and his mistakes, Billy knew, and, under some other name, to become a firm and loyal American.
It was not until he had climbed aboard the jerky, bumpy little train, that he realized what a plight he was in. Water dripped from his clothes and splashed in his shoes, his hair was wet, he had lost his hat. There were not many passengers on the Piscataqua accommodation, but what few there were stared at him unceasingly and discussed him in whispers through the whole period of the journey.
Every farmhouse, every crossroads, seemed to be a stopping place for this especial train; precious minutes were wasted that began to grow into precious hours.
“Suppose the recruiting place is closed,” he kept thinking. “Suppose they are closing it now! Suppose the last man they need is just applying and the officer in charge is saying, ‘Shut the doors!’”
They bumped to a stop at Clifford’s Junction, three miles from Piscataqua and waited ten minutes—fifteen—twenty.
“How long is this going to last?” Billy finally appealed to the brakeman.
“We’ve got to wait here for the Boston
