Many a night after that had Ella lain awake thinking of the splendid features and, the even more splendid conduct of this unknown knight who wore the uniform of the Union army. "How I love him," she would whisper to herself; "but how he must despise me!" she would cry, and her pillow was often wet with tears of shame and mortification at her folly.

It was shortly after this episode that her parents had taken sick and passed away. Ella had come East and had given up hope of ever seeing her rescuer again. You may imagine her feelings then when, on entering the drawing room at the van der Griffs', she discovered that the stranger who had so gallantly and tactfully rescued her from a watery grave was none other than General Ulysses S. Grant.

The poor girl was torn by a tumult of contrary emotions. Suppose he should remember her face. She blushed at the thought. And besides what chance had she to win such a great man's heart in competition with these society girls like Geraldine Rhinelander who had been "abroad" and spoke French.

At that moment one of the liveried servants approached the general with a trayful of filled wine glasses. So engrossed was the soldier hero in talking to Geraldine—or, rather, in listening to her alluring chatter—that he did not at first notice what was being offered him.

"Will you have a drink of champagne wine, General?" said Mrs. van der Griff who stood near.

The general raised his head and frowned as if he did not understand.

"Come, mon General," cried Geraldine gayly, "We shall drink a votre succes dans la guerre," and the flighty girl raised a glass of wine on high. Several of the guests crowded around and all were about to drink to the general's health.

"Stop," cried General Grant suddenly realizing what was being done, and something in the tone of his voice made everyone pause.

"Madam," said he, turning to Mrs. van der Griff, "Am I to understand that there is liquor in those glasses?"

"Why yes, General," said the hostess smiling uneasily. "It is just a little champagne wine."

"Madam," said the general, "It may be 'just champagne wine' to you, but 'just champagne wine' has ruined many a poor fellow and to me all alcoholic beverages are an abomination. I cannot consent, madam, to remain under your roof if they are to be served. I have never taken a drop—I have tried to stamp it out of the army, and I owe it to my soldiers to decline to be a guest at a house where wine and liquor are served."

An excited buzz of comment arose as the general delivered this ultimatum. A few there were who secretly approved his sentiments, but they were far too few in numbers and constant indulgence in alcohol had weakened their wills so that they dared not stand forth. An angry flush appeared on the face of the hostess, for in society, "good form" is more important than courage and ideals, and by his frank statement General Grant had violently violated the canons of correct social etiquette.

"Very well, Mr. Grant," she said, stressing the "Mr."—"if that's the way you feel about it——"

"Stop," cried an unexpected voice, and to the amazement of all Ella Flowers stepped forward, her teeth clenched, her eyes blazing.

"Stop," she repeated, "He is right—the liquor evil is one of the worst curses of modern civilization, and if General Grant leaves, so do I."

Mrs. van der Griff hesitated for an instant, and then suddenly forced a smile.

"Why Ella dear, of course General Grant is right," said she, for it was well known in financial circles that her husband, Mr. van der Griff, had recently borrowed heavily from Ella's uncle. "There will not be a drop of wine served to-night, and now General, shall we go in to dinner? Will you be so kind as to lead the way with Miss Rhinelander?" The hostess had recovered her composure, and smiling sweetly at the guest of honor, gave orders to the servants to remove the wine glasses.

But General Grant did not hear her; he was looking at Ella Flowers. And as he gazed at the sweet beauty of her countenance he seemed to feel rising within him something which he had never felt before—something which made everything else seem petty and trivial. And as he looked into her eyes and she looked into his, he read her answer—the only answer true womanhood can make to clean, worthy manhood.

"Shall we go a la salle-a-manger?" sounded a voice in his ears, and Geraldine's sinuous arm was thrust through his.

General Grant took the proffered talon and gently removed it from him.

"Miss Rhinelander," he said firmly, "I am taking this young lady as my partner," and suiting the action to the word, he graciously extended his arm to Ella who took it with a pretty blush.

It was General Grant's turn to blush when the other guests, with a few exceptions, applauded his choice loudly, and made way enthusiastically as the handsome couple advanced to the brilliantly lighted dining room.

But although the hostess had provided the most costly of viands, I am afraid that the brave general did not fully appreciate them, for in his soul was the joy of a strong man who has found his mate and in his heart was the singing of the eternal song, "I love her—I love her—I love her!"

It was only too apparent to the other guests what had happened and to their credit be it said that they heartily approved his choice, for Mrs. Rhinelander and her scheming daughter Geraldine had made countless enemies with their haughty manners, whereas the sweet simplicity of Ella Flowers had won her numerous friends. And all laughed merrily when General Grant, in his after dinner speech, said "flowers" instead of "flour" when speaking of provisioning the army—a slip which caused both the general and Miss Flowers to blush furiously, greatly to the delight of the good-natured guests. "All the world loves a lover"—truer words were never penned.

After dinner, while the other men, according to the usages of best society, were filling the air of the dining room with the fumes of nicotine, the general, who did not use tobacco, excused himself—amid many sly winks from the other men—and wandered out into the conservatory.

There he found Ella.

"General," she began.

"Miss Flowers," said the strong man simply, "Call me Ulysses."

And there let us leave them.



CHAPTER EIGHT

CUSTER'S LAST STAND

In the Manner of Edith Wharton

It was already late afternoon and the gas street lamps of the Boul' Mich' were being lighted for Paris, or at least for Paris in summer, by a somewhat frigid looking allumeur, when Philip Custer came to the end of his letter. He hesitated for an instant, wrote "Your——," then crossed that out and substituted "Sincerely." No, decidedly the first ending, with its, as is, or, rather, as ordinarily is, the case in hymeneal epistles, somewhat possessive sense, would no longer suffice. "Yours truly"—perhaps; "sincerely"—better; but certainly not "Your husband." He was done, thank God, with presences.

Philip sipped his absinthe and gazed for an instant through the Cafe window; a solitary fiacre rattled by; he picked up the result of his afternoon's labor, wearily.

"Dear Mary," he read, "When I told you that my employers were sending me to Paris, I lied to you. It was, perhaps, the first direct lie that I ever told you; it was, I know now, the last. But a falsehood by word of mouth mattered really very little in comparison with the enormous lie that my life with you had become."

Philip paused and smiled, somewhat bitterly, at that point in the letter. Mary, with her American woman's intuition, would undoubtedly surmise that he had run off with Mrs. Everett; there was a certain ironical humor in the fact that Mary's mistaken guess would be sadly indicative of her whole failure to understand what her husband was, to use a slang expression, "driving at."

"I hope that you will believe me when I say that I came to Paris to paint. In the past four years the desire to do that has grown steadily until it has mastered me. You do not understand. I found no one in America who did. I think my mother might have, had she lived; certainly it is utterly incomprehensible to father."

Philip stopped. Ay, there was the rub—General Custer, and all that he stood for. Philip glimpsed momentarily those early boyhood days with his father, spent mainly in army posts; the boy's cavalry uniform, in which he had ridden old Bess about the camp, waving his miniature sabre; the day he had been thrown to the ground by a strange horse which he had disobediently mounted, just as his father arrived on the scene. Philip had never forgotten his father's words that day. "Don't crawl, son,—don't whine. It was your fault this time and you deserved what you got. Lots of times it won't be your fault, but you'll have to take your licking anyway. But remember this, son—take your medicine like a man—always."

Philip groaned; he knew what the general would say when the news of his son's desertion of his wife and four year old boy reached him. He knew that he never could explain to his father the absolute torture of the last four years of enervating domesticity and business mediocrity—the torture of the Beauty within him crying for expression, half satisfied by the stolen evenings at the art school but constantly growing stronger in its all-consuming appeal. No, life to his father was a simple problem in army ethics—a problem in which duty was "a", one of the known factors; "x," the unknown, was either "bravery" or "cowardice" when brought in contact with "a". Having solved this problem, his father had closed the book; of the higher mathematics, and especially of those complex problems to which no living man knew the final answer, he had no conception. And yet——

Philip resumed his reading to avoid the old endless maze of subtleties.

"It is not that I did not—or do not—love you. It is, rather, that something within me is crying out—something which is stronger than I, and which I cannot resist. I have waited two years to be sure. Yesterday, as soon as I reached here, I took my work to the man who is considered the finest art critic in Paris. He told me that there was a quality to my painting which he had seen in that of no living artist; he told me that in five years of hard work I should be able to produce work which Botticelli would be proud to have done. Do you understand that, Mary—Botticelli!

"But no, forgive me. My paean of joy comes strangely in a letter which should be of abject humility for what must seem to you, to father, and to all, a cowardly, selfish act of desertion—a whining failure to face life. Oh dear, dear Mary if you could but understand what a hell I have been through—"

Philip took his pen and crossed out the last line so that no one could read what had been there.

"Materially, of course, you and little George will be better off; the foolish pride with which I refused to let your parents help us now no longer stands in their way. You should have no difficulty about a divorce.

"You can dispose of my things as you see fit; there is nothing I care about keeping which I did not bring.

"Again, Mary, I cannot ask you to forgive, or even to understand, but I do hope that you will believe me when I say that this act of mine is the most honest thing I have ever done, and that to have acted out the tragi-comedy in the part of a happy contented husband would have made of both of our lives a bitter useless farce. Sincerely, Philip."

He folded the pages and addressed the envelope.

"Pardon, Monsieur"—a whiff of sulphur came to his nose as the waiter bent over the table to light the gas above him. "Would Monsieur like to see the journal? There is a most amusing story about—— The bill, Monsieur? Yes—in a moment."

Philip glanced nervously through the pages of the Temps. He was anxious to get the letter to the post—to have done with indecision and worry. It would be a blessed relief when the thing was finally done beyond chance of recall; why couldn't that stupid waiter hurry?

On the last page of the newspaper was an item headlined "Recent News from America." Below was a sub-heading "Horrible Massacre of Soldiers by Indians—Brave Stand of American Troopers." He caught the name "Custer" and read:

"And by his brave death at the hands of the Indians, this gallant American general has made the name of Custer one which will forever be associated with courage of the highest type."

He read it all through again and sat quietly as the hand of Polyphemus closed over him. He even smiled a little—a weary, ironic smile.

"Monsieur desires something more, perhaps"—the waiter held out the bill.

Philip smiled. "No—Monsieur has finished—there is nothing more."

Then he repeated slowly, "There is nothing more."

* * * * *

Philip watched his son George blow out the twelve candles on his birthday cake.

"Mother," said George, "when I get to be eighteen, can I be a soldier just like grandfather up there?" He pointed to the portrait of Philip's father in uniform which hung in the dining room.

"Of course you can, dear," said his mother. "But you must be a brave boy".

"Grandfather was awful brave, wasn't he father?" This from little Mary between mouthfuls of cake.

"Yes, Mary," Philip answered. "He was very, very brave."

"Of course he was," said George. "He was an American."

"Yes," answered Philip, "That explains it.—he was an American."

Mrs. Custer looked up at the portrait of her distinguished father-in-law.

"You know Philip, I think it must be quite nice to be able to paint a picture like that. I've often wondered why you never kept up your art."



CHAPTER NINE

"FOR THE FREEDOM OF THE WORLD"

A DRAMA OF THE GREAT WAR

Act I: In the Manner of Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews

Act 2: In the Manner of Eugene O'Neill

ACT ONE

(Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews)

SCENE I

A principal street of an American city in the spring of 1918.

At the rear of the stage, representing the opposite sidewalk of the street, are gathered many people come to bid farewell to the boys of the Blankth regiment who are soon to march past on their way to France.

Extending across the "street", from footlights to "sidewalk", is a large white plaster arch, gayly decorated with the Allied colors.

On this arch is the inscription "For the Freedom of the World."

At the rising of the curtain, distant march music is heard (off stage, right); this constantly grows louder during the ensuing dialogue which takes place between three elderly women crowded together at the edge of the sidewalk. These women, although, before the war, of different stations in social rank, are now united, as are all mothers in the Allied countries, by the glorious badge which each proudly wears pinned over her heart—the service star.

The Professor's Wife—I hear them coming.

The Street-cleaner's Wife—So do I. I hope my boy Pat sees me.

The Pawnbroker's Wife—I told my Jean where to look.

The approaching music and the cheering of the spectators drowns out further conversation.

Enter (right) the regimental band playing the "Stars and Stripes Forever." They march through the arch and exit left. Following them comes the flag, at the sight of which all the male spectators (young boys and men too old to fight) remove their hats. After the colors come the troops, splendid clean faced fellows, in whose eyes shines the light of civilization's ideals, in whose ears rings the never forgettable cry of heroic France and brave little Belgium. The boys are marching four abreast, with a firm determined step; it is as though each man were saying to himself "They shall not pass."

After the first few squads have marched through the arch and off left, the command is issued off-stage "Company—HALT." A young lieutenant repeats this order to his men, and the column comes to a stop. The men stand at attention until given the command "Rest", when they relax and a murmur of conversation arises from the ranks, in which characteristic sentences "German ideals are not our ideals" and "Suppose it was your own sister" show only too well what the boys are thinking of day and night.

As the column halts, the three service star mothers rush out from the curb and embrace their sons who happen to be in this company. At the same time a very attractive girl runs up to the young lieutenant.

The Lieutenant—Ellen! His Fiancee—John! The Professor's Son} The Streetcleaner's Son } Mother! The Pawnbroker's Son }

The Professor's Wife } The Streetcleaner's Wife } My Boy! The Pawnbroker's Wife } Voice off stage—Company—Atten SHUN!

The farewells are said, the men come to attention.

Voice off stage—Forward—MARCH

The Lieutenant—(Pointing with his sword to the inscription on the arch)—Forward for the Freedom of the World—MARCH.

The men's teeth click together, their heads are thrown back, and with a light in their eyes that somehow suggests Joan of Arc the Crusaders move on.

SCENE 2

Three months later.

A section of an American front line trench now occupied by the Blankth regiment.

It is early morning and the three soldiers mentioned in Scene 1 are conversing together for perhaps the last time, for soon they are to be given the chance which every American man desires more than anything in the world—the opportunity to go "over the top".

The Professor's Son—Well fellows, in a few minutes we shall be able to show the people at home that their boys are not cowards when the fate of civilization is at stake.

The Pawnbroker's Son—Here's a newspaper clipping mother sent me. It's from a speech made the other day in Congress. (He reads) "And we and our children—and our children's children will never forget the debt we owe those brave boys who are now in France."

The Streetcleaner's Son—That makes a fellow feel pretty good inside, doesn't it? It makes me glad I'm doing my bit—and after the war I hope the ideals which have inspired us all will make us better citizens in a better world.

The Professor's Son—Not only will we be better citizens—not only will the torch of liberty shine more brightly—but also each one of us will go back to his job with a deeper vision.

The Pawnbroker's Son—That's right I am a musician—a pianist, you know—and I hope that after the war I shall be able to tell America, through my music, of the glory of this holy cause.

The Professor's Son—I didn't know you were a pianist.

The Pawnbroker's Son—Yes—ever since I was a boy—I have had no other interest. My father tried to make me go into his shop but I couldn't stand it. He got angry and refused to support me; I had a hard time until I won a scholarship at a New York musical college. Just before the war I had a chance to play the Schumann concerto with the Philharmonic; the critics all said that in another year I would be—but fellows—you must think me frightfully conceited to talk so, and besides what matters my musical career in comparison with the sacrifice which everyone is making?

The Streetcleaner's Son—And gladly making, too, for it is easy to give up all, as did Joan of Arc, for France. Attention, men! here comes one of our officers.

The three stand at attention.

Enter the Lieutenant.

The Lieutenant—Well, men, do you feel ready?

The Three—More than ready, sir—eager.

The Lieutenant—Brave men! (To the Professor's Son) Come here a minute, Keating. I have something to ask you before we go over the top.

The Professor's Son and the Lieutenant go to one side.

The Lieutenant—(To the other two in a kindly manner)—At ease!

The Streetcleaner's Son—Thank you, sir.

They relax from their rigid posture of "attention".

The Lieutenant—(To the Professor's Son)—Keating, when we "go over", we—may—never come back, you know. And I want to ask a favor of you. I am engaged—to a girl back home—here is her picture (he draws a photograph from his inner breast pocket and shows it to the Professor's Son.)

The Professor's Son—She is beautiful, Sir.

The Lieutenant—(Putting the photograph back in his pocket)—Yes very beautiful. And (dropping his eyes)—I love her. If—if I should "go west" I want you to write her and tell her that my last thoughts were of my country and—her. We are to be married—after the war—if (suddenly clearing his throat). Her name is Ellen Radcliff—here, I'll write the address down for you.

He does so, and hands the slip of paper to the Professor's Son, who discreetly turns away.

The Lieutenant—(Brusquely)—That's all, Keating.

A bugle sounds.

The Lieutenant—Attention men! At the next bugle call you go over the top—remember that you are Americans and that Americans know how to fight and die in the cause of liberty and for the freedom of the world. The Three Soldiers—We are ready to make the supreme sacrifice if need be.

The bugle sounds.

The Lieutenant—(Climbing up the ladder to the top of the trench)—Follow me, men—

The Three Soldiers—(Climbing up after him)—Lafayette—we come, though poppies bloom in Flanders field.

They go "over the top".

SCENE 3

A section of a Hun trench a minute later. Two Hun soldiers are conversing together; another Hun is reading a copy of Nietzsche.

First Hun Soldier—And then we cut the hands off all the little children—oh it was wonderful.

Second Hun Soldier—I wish I had been there.

A Hun Lieutenant rushes in.

The Hun Lieutenant—(Kicking the three men and brandishing his revolver)—Swine—wake up—here come the Americans.

The three spring to their feet and seize their guns. At the top of the trench appears the American lieutenant, closely followed by the three soldiers.

The American Lieutenant—(Coolly)—We come to avenge the sinking of the Lusitania.

The Hun Lieutenant—Hoch der Kaiser! Might is stronger than right!

He treacherously tries to shoot the American but the Professor's Son disarms him with his bayonet. The three Hun soldiers offer a show of resistance.

The Streetcleaner's Son—(To first Hun soldier)—Your hands are unclean with the murder of innocent women and children.

First Hun Soldier—(Dropping his gun)—Kamerad!

The Pawnbroker's Son—(To the other Hun soldiers)—Prussianism has destroyed the Germany of Bach and Beethoven and you fellows know it, too.

Second and third Hun Soldiers—(Dropping their guns)—Kamerad!

The American Lieutenant—Men—you have kept the faith. I am proud of you. Forward!

An explosion (not too loud to annoy the audience) is heard off stage right.

The Professor's Son—(Sinking to the ground) Fellows, I'm afraid they've got me.

The Streetcleaner's Son—What a shame!

The Lieutenant—Is there anything we can do to ease the pain?

The Professor's Son—(Weakening rapidly) No—go on, boys, carry the—banner of—civilization's ideals—forward—without me—Tell mother I'm glad—I did—my bit—for the freedom—of the world—fellows, the only—thing—I regret—is that I won't—be able to be with you—when you—go back—to enjoy the gratitude—of America—good-bye, fellows, may you drink—to the full—the rewards of a grateful nation.

He dies. The others regretfully leave him behind as they push on after the fleeing Huns.

The stage is slowly darkened—the noise of battle dies away.

Enter an Angel in the uniform of the Y.M.C.A. She goes up to the fallen hero and taking him in her arms tenderly carries him off the stage.

CURTAIN

TWO YEARS PASS

ACT TWO

(Eugene O'Neill)

SCENE I

The bedroom of a bachelor apartment in New York City in the Fall of 1920.

There is about the room an air of neglect, as though the occupant did not particularly give a damn whether he slept in this room or in hell. This is evidenced in a general way by the absence of any attempts at decoration and by the presence of dirty laundry and unopened letters scattered about the room.

The furniture consists of a bed and a bureau; at the foot of the former is a trunk such as was used by American army officers in the recent war.

Although it is three in the morning, the bed is unoccupied. The electric light over the bureau has been left lighted.

The lamp flickers and goes out for a minute; when it again flashes on, the Angel and the Professor's Son are seen standing in the room, as though they had come there directly from the close of the preceding act; the Angel, however, has completely removed all Y.M.C.A. insignia and now has a beard and chews tobacco; from time to time he spits out of the window.

The angel—Why the hell weren't you satisfied to stay in heaven?

The Professor's Son—Well, I just wanted to see my old buddies once more—I want to see them enjoying the gratitude of the world.

The Angel—Hmmmm—well, this is where your Lieutenant now lives—and I think I hear him coming.

They step behind a curtain. The noise of a key rattling in a lock is heard, then a light flashes on in the next room. The sound of unsteady footsteps—a vase is knocked over—a curse—then enter the Lieutenant.

He wears a dinner-coat, one sleeve of which hangs empty. His face is white, his eyes set, his mouth hard and hopeless. He is drunk—not hilariously—but with the drunkenness of despair.

He sits down on the bed and remains for several minutes, his head in his hands.

The Lieutenant—God, I'm drunk—(after a pause)—drunk again—well, what of it—what the hell difference does it make—get drunk if I want to—sure I will—get drunk—that's the dope DRUNK—oh Christ—!

He throws himself on the bed and after lying there a few minutes sits up.

The Lieutenant—Gotta have another drink—can't go sleep, God damn it—brain too clear—gotta kill brain—that's the dope—kill brain—forget—wipe out past—

He opens the trunk in his search for liquor. He suddenly pulls out his lieutenant's coat and holds it up.

The Lieutenant—There's that God damn thing—never wanted to see it again—wound stripes on right sleeve, too—hurrah for brave soldier—arm shot off to—to make world safe for democracy—blaa—the god damn hypocrites—democracy hell—arm shot off because I wasn't clever enough to stay out of it—ought to have had sense enough to join the—the ordinance department or—or the Y.M.C.A.

He feels aimlessly through the pockets of the coat. Suddenly, from the inside breast pocket he draws out something—a photograph—

The Lieutenant—Ellen! Oh God!

He gazes at the picture for a long time.

The Lieutenant—Yes, Ellen, I should have joined the Y.M.C.A. shouldn't I?—where they don't get their arms shot off—couldn't marry a man with one arm, could you?—of course not—think of looking at an empty sleeve year after year—children might be born with only one arm, too—children—oh God damn you, Ellen, you and your Y.M.C.A. husband!

He tears the picture in two and hurls it into the trunk. Then he sinks onto the bed, sobbing drunkenly. After a few minutes, he walks over to the trunk and picks up one half of the torn picture. He turns it over in his hand and reads the writing on the back.

The Lieutenant (Reading)—"I'm waiting for you, dear—when you have done your bit 'for the freedom of the world'."

He smiles, wearily, and reaches down to pick up the other half of the picture. His eye is caught by something shiny; it is his army revolver. He slowly picks it up and looks at it for a long time.

The Lieutenant—For the freedom of the world—

He quickly opens his top bureau drawer and takes out a box of cartridges. One of these he inserts in a chamber of his revolver.

The Lieutenant—For the FREEDOM—

He laughs.

As the curtain falls he presses the revolver against his temple and fires.

SCENE 2

A bare room in a boarding house. To the left is a bed, to the right a grand piano—the latter curiously out of keeping with the other cheap furnishings. The room is in partial darkness.

The door slowly swings open; the Angel and the Professor's Son enter.

The Angel—And here you have the room of your friend the Pawnbroker's Son—the musical genius—with a brilliant future.

They hide in a closet, leaving the door partly open.

Enter Jean, the Pawnbroker's Son. He has on a cutaway suit—a relic of his first and last public concert before the war. His shoulders sag dejectedly and his face is drawn and white. He comes in and sits on the bed. A knock—a determined knock—is heard at the door but Jean does not move. The door opens and his landlady—a shrewish, sharp faced woman of 40—appears. He gets up off the bed when he sees her and bows.

The Landlady—I forgot you was deef or I wouldn't have wasted my time hitting my knuckles against your door.

Jean gazes at her.

The Landlady—Well Mr. Rosen I guess you know why I'm here—it's pay up today or get out.

Jean—Please write it down—you know I cannot hear a word you say. I suppose it's about the rent.

The landlady takes paper and pencil and writes.

The Landlady—(Reading over the result of her labor)—"To-day—is—the—last day. If you can't pay, you must get out."

She hands it to Jean and he reads.

Jean—But I cannot pay. Next week perhaps I shall get work—

The Landlady—(Scornfully)—Yes—Next week maybe I have to sell another liberty bond for seventy dollars what I paid a hundred dollars for, too. No sir I need the money NOW. Here—

She writes and hands it to him.

Jean (Reading)—Sell my piano? But please I cannot do that—yet.

The Landlady—A lot of good a piano does a deef person like you. That's a good one—( She laughs harshly). The deef musician—ho ho—with a piano.

Jean—Madam, I shall pay you surely next week. There has been some delay in my war risk insurance payment. I should think that you would trust a soldier who lost his hearing in the trenches—

The Landlady—That's old stuff. You soldiers think just because you were unlucky enough to get drafted you can spend the rest of your life patting yourselves on the back. Besides—what good did the war do anyway—except make a lot of rich people richer?

She scribbles emphatically "Either you pay up tonight or out you go."

Handing this to Jean with a flourish, she exits.

He sits on the bed for a long time.

Finally he glances up at the wall over his bed where hangs a cheap photo frame. In the center is a picture of President Wilson; on one side of this is a crude print of a soldier, on the other side a sailor; above is the inscription "For the Freedom of the World."

Jean takes down the picture and looks at it. As he replaces it on the wall he sees hanging above it the bayonet which he had carried through the war. He slowly takes the weapon down, runs his fingers along the edge and smiles—a quiet tired smile which does not leave his face during the rest of the scene.

He walks over to the piano and plays the opening chords of the Schumann concerto. Then shaking his head sadly, he tenderly closes down the lid and locks it.

He next writes a note which he folds and places, with the key to the piano, in an envelope. Sealing and addressing the envelope, he places it on the piano. Then, walking over to the bed, he picks up the bayonet, and shutting his eyes for an instant, he steps forward and cuts his throat as the curtain falls.

SCENE 3

Same as Act 1, Scene 1 except for the changes made in the city street by a year or more of peace.

The arch across the thoroughfare still stands, although it has become badly discolored and dirty; the inscription "For the Freedom of the World" is but faintly visible. As the curtain rises workmen are busy at work tearing the arch down.

Enter the Angel and the Professor's Son.

The Angel—Stand over here, out of the way, and you'll see the last of your cronies—Pat, the Streetcleaner's Son—enjoying the gratitude of the world.

The Professor's Son does not answer.

Enter Pat. He has on an old pair of corduroy trousers, with his brown army shirt, and shoes out at the heel.

He looks as if he had not slept for days certainly he has not shaved for a week. He approaches one of the workmen.

Pat—Say buddy any chance for a job here?

The Workman—Hell no. They was fifty applicants yesterday. (Looking at his army shirt) Most of them ex-soldiers like you. Jobs is mighty scarce.

Pat—I'll tell the world they are. I'd almost join the army again, except for my wife and kid.

The Workman—God—don't do it.

Pat—Why—was you across?

The Workman—Yes, God damn it—eight months. Next war I'll let somebody else do the fighting.

Pat—Same here. The wise guys were them that stayed at home and kept their jobs.

The Workman—I'll say they were.

Pat—(Growing more excited)—And while we was over there fighting, nothing was too good for us—"brave boys," they said, "we shall never forget what you have done for us." Never forget—hell! In about a year everybody forgot there ever was a war and a fellow has a hell of a time getting a job—and when you mention the war they just laugh—why God damn it, I've been out of work for six months and I ain't no loafer either and my wife has had to go back to her folks and I'm just about all in—

During this speech the work on dismantling the arch has steadily progressed. Suddenly there comes a warning cry—"Look out"—as the supports unexpectedly give way. Pat is too engrossed in his tirade to take heed, and as the center portion of the arch falls it crushes him beneath its weight. After the cloud of dust clears, he is seen lying under the mass. By a curious twist of fate he has been crushed by the portion of the arch bearing the inscription "For the Freedom of the World." His eyes open for an instant—he reads, through the mist of approaching death, the words, and he laughs—

Pat—For the Freedom of the World—Oh Christ!

His mocking laughter is interrupted by a severe fit of coughing and he sinks back dead.

The Professor's Son—Oh God—take me somewhere where I can't ever see the world.

The angel—Come to heaven.

CURTAIN

THE END