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And there, in a roomy chair in a corner of the public library reference room, facing the big front window, you will see Old Man Randall. His white hair forms a halo above his pitiful drink-marred face. He was to have been a great lawyer, was Old Man Randall.
He had never stood on the curbing outside a recruiting office on South State Street, in the old levee district, and watched that tragic panorama move by those nightmare faces, drink-marred, vice-scarred, ruined. I know that he had never seen such faces in all his clean, hard-working young boy's life, spent in our prosperous little country town.
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