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She had read again and again the unbelievable item. At length she snapped her head, as Spike Brennon would when now and again a clean blow reached his jaw, pushed the untouched dessert from her with a gesture of repugnance, and went aloft to her own little room.
He rested his hand on Spike's forehead but withdrew it quickly when Spike winced. He went on with the war; and the war went on. "You would never guess," wrote Winona, "who was brought to this base hospital last week. It was the Mr. Brennon I wrote you of, Mr. Edward Brennon, the friend of Wilbur's who went with him from Newbern. He is blind from gas, poor thing! Our head surgeon knew him.
After that she merely had to sit down at a table in the station-agent's room and write up the whole story for her paper. The operator and the Recorder would do the rest. She would send a flash wire to notify Brennon, the night editor, what to expect and she would send a special message to McAllister that would send him jumping for the Chief of Police. The Recorder was a morning paper.
With one eye widened in admiration, he thrust it without warning full into her gaze, whereupon she had gaspingly fled, not even noting the inscription of which the boy was especially proud: "To my friend, Mr. Wilbur Cowan, from his friend, Eddie Spike Brennon, 133 lbs. ringside."
In Louise's manner no change was observed. One afternoon the Major, old Gid, and an Englishman named Anthony Low were sitting on the porch overlooking the river when the Catholic priest from Maryland, Father Brennon, stopped to get a drink of water. And he was slowly making his way across the yard to the well when the Major called him, urging him to come upon the porch and rest himself.
Had it been disclosed to her that Wilbur Cowan, under the chaperonage of Edward Spike Brennon, 133 lbs., ringside, had become an addict of these affairs, a determined and efficient exponent of the weird new steps "a good thing for y'r footwork," Spike had said she would have considered he had plumbed the profoundest depths of social ignominy. Yet so it was. Each Friday night he danced.
So far as his direct mental processes could inform him, the only trickery involved had been employed by Germany and Spike Brennon. Germany's behaviour was more understandable than the New Dawn, and Spike Brennon was much simpler in his words. Spike said it was a dandy chance to get into a real scrap, and all husky lads should be there in a split second at the first call.
Her quick eyes darting along the platform to where Wilbur stood, she rushed to embrace him. "Where's the other one?" he demanded. Astoundingly she tripped back to the still emptying car and led forward none other than Edward Spike Brennon. He was in the uniform of a private and his eyes were hidden by dark glasses. Wilbur fell upon him.
It may be said that he was not the proud young Spike Brennon of the photograph. He was all of twenty-five, and his later years had told. Where once had been the bridge of his nose was now a sharp indentation. One ear was weirdly enlarged; and his mouth, though he spoke through narrowly opened lips, glittered in the morning sun with the sheen of purest gold.
This crossed the Major's mind and drove away his cheerful whistling; and he was deeply thinking when someone riding in haste reined in a horse abreast of him. Looking up he recognized the priest. "Why, good morning, Mr. Brennon; how are you?" "Well, I thank you. How far do you go?" "To Brantly." "That's fortunate," said the priest, "for I am selfish enough to let you shorten the journey for me."
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