Joy in the Morning by Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews
page 93 of 204 (45%)
page 93 of 204 (45%)
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It was Thurston's idea of a joke. He would have been startled if he had
known into what a trembling balance his sledge-hummer wit cast its unlucky weight. The balance quivered at the blow, shook back and forth an instant and fell heavily. Jim Barlow wheeled, sprang down the stone steps and bolted up the street, panting as one who has escaped a wild beast. Thurston had said it. That was what was due to happen. It was now three o'clock; Barlow fled up State Street to the big hotel and took a room and locked his door and threw himself on the bed. What was he to do? After weeks of hesitation he had come to the decision that he would offer himself to his country. He saw--none plainer--the reasons why it was fit and right so to do. Other men were giving up homes and careers and the whole bright and easy side of life--why not he? It was the greatest cause to fight for in the world's history--should he not fight for it? How, after the war, might he meet friends, his own people, his children to come, if he alone of his sort had no honorable record to show? Such arguments, known to all, he repeated, even aloud he repeated them, tossing miserably about the bed in his hotel room. And his mind at once accepted them, but that was all. His spirit failed to spring to his mind's support with the throb of emotion which is the spark that makes the engine go. The wheels went around over and over but the connection was not made. The human mind is useful machinery, but it is only the machine's master, the soul, which can use it. Over and over he got to his feet and spoke aloud: "Now I will go." Over and over a repulsion seized him so strongly that his knees gave way and he fell back on the bed. If he had a mother, he thought, she might have helped, but there was no one. Mary--but he could not risk Mary's belief in his courage. Only a mother would have understood entirely. With that, sick at heart, the hideous sea of counter arguments, arguments of a slacker, surged upon him. What would it all matter a |
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