And what a crowd it was! He was elbowed and pushed, jostled and trod on, carried into the surges, relegated to the eddies; and always the metallic tap-tap of steel-shod boots on the asphalt, the bayonets throwing back the radiant sunshine in sharp, clear flashes. The keen, joyous faces of those boys. God, to be young like that! To have come through that hell on earth with the ability still to smile! Cutty felt the tears running down his cheeks. Instinctively he knew that this was to be his last thrill of this order. He was fifty-two.
"Quit your crowding there!" barked a voice under his chin.
"Sorry, but it's those behind me," said Cutty, looking down into a florid countenance with a raggedy gray moustache and a pair of blue eyes that were blinking.
"I'm so damned short I can't see anything!"
"Neither can I."
"You could if you wiped your eyes."
"You're crying yourself," declared Cutty.
"Blinking jackass! Got anybody out there?"
"All of 'em."
"I get you, old son of a gun! No flesh and blood, but they're ours all the same. Couple of old fools; huh?"
"Sure pop! What right have two old codgers got here, anyhow? What brought you out?"
"What brought you?"
