Kedzie made a bad week of it. She missed him sadly. There was no one
to quarrel with or make up with. When he came back late Saturday
night she was so glad to see him that she cried blissfully upon his
proud bosom.
They had a little imitation honeymoon and went a-motoring on Sunday
out into the lands where June was embroidering the grass with
flowers and shaking the petals off the branches where young fruit
was fashioning.
They discussed their summer schemes and she dreaded the knowledge
that in July he must go to the manoeuvers for three weeks. They
agreed to get aboard his yacht for a little cruise before that
dreadful interlude.
And then, early the next morning, the morning of the 19th of June,
the knuckles of his valet on the door woke Jim from his slumber
and a voice through the panels murmured:
"Very sorry, sir, but you are wanted on the telephone, sir--it's
your regiment."
That was the way the Paul Reveres of 1916 summoned the troops to
arms.
Mr. Minute-Man Dyckman sat on the edge of his bed in his silk pajamas
with the telephone-receiver at his ear, and yawned: "H'lo.... Who
is it?... What is it?... Oh, it's you, sergeant.... Yes?... No!...
For God's sake!... I'll get out right away."
"What's the matter? Is the house on fire?" Kedzie gasped from her
pillow, half-awake and only half-afraid, so prettily befuddled she
was with sleep. She would have made a picture if Jim had had eyes
to see her as she struggled to one elbow and thrust with her other
hand her curls back into her nightcap, all askew.
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