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One morning while at drill a stranger approached me, who turned out to be ex-Private Patrick Sharket, employed as a signal-man on the G.T.R. He heard my voice in the distance, and he knew it was "Teddy's," so he told me after. Sharket was a smart and good soldier.
"Gee, gosh, Stevie! How's the boy?" They shook hands, moving to the curb where they could talk. "What's the idea?" demanded ex-Private Cowan. "Why this dead part of town for so many of the boys?" Service men were constantly sauntering by them or chatting in little groups at the curb. "She's dead, right now," Steve told him, "but she'll wake up pronto. Listen, Buck, we got the tip!
He is dining and doesn't like to be disturbed unless the matter is of grave importance." "Tell him Mr. Peck wishes to speak to him on a matter of very great importance," wailed the ex-private. "Mr. Metz? Mr. Ben Metz? "No, no, no. Peck p-e-c-k." "D-e-c-k?" "No, P." "Oh, yes, E. E-what?" "Oh, yes, Mr. Eckstein."
Thus far, since five or ten thousand years, the mind had successfully reacted, and nothing yet proved that it would fail to react but it would need to jump. NEARLY forty years had passed since the ex-private secretary landed at New York with the ex-Ministers Adams and Motley, when they saw American society as a long caravan stretching out towards the plains.
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