“Trot along, Allan.”
“But how about this stadium? I’m doubting Old B—”
“Trot along, Allan.”
****
What Mary had said was a fact. Norman Antor had not only fought a military war; Norman Antor had also fought an inward war. A war, which fought him with gallon jugs, small phials, spoons, mixing apparatus, and—a stumbling, mumbling stupor! Norman had fought with about two million lads in that military war; but now, with no aid but a strain of good blood, starting way back of his carousing Dad (but, as such traits may, skipping a notch or two, and implanting in this young lad just a grain of its old nobility of mind), was fighting again; and, just as any solitary young chap amongst that two million loyally did his part, just so was this tiny grain now doing its part; fighting valiantly in his brain. It was giving him torturing thoughts in army night-camps, of a darling, loving young girl, a part of his own family, growing up “in a pool of liquor;” thoughts in night-camps of Branton Hills’ patrol-wagon trips to jail; and Darn that thought of Virginia! Virginia drunk
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