“Oh!” said Mrs. Egg.  “Oh!”

She stood up.  The view enlarged.  Adam was plain as possible.  He grinned, too; straight from the screen at her.  The audience murmured.  Applause broke out, Adam jerked his black head to his opponent—­and the view flicked off in some stupid business of admirals.  Mrs. Egg sat down and sobbed.

“Was that Adam, daughter?  The—­the big feller with black hair?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Egg; “yes.”  She was hot with rage against the makers of pictures who’d taken him from her.  It was a shame.  She crammed four peppermints into her mouth and groaned about them, “As if people wouldn’t rather look at some good wrestlin’ than a lot of captains and stuff!”

“How long’s the boy been in the Navy, Myrtle?”

“April 14, 1917.”

The whisper restored her.  Mrs. Egg yawned for an hour of nonsense about a millionaire and his wife who was far too thin.  Her father did not speak, although he moved now and then.  The show concluded.  Mrs. Egg lumbered wearily out to her car in the dull street and vaguely listened to the whisper of old age.  She couldn’t pay attention.  She was going home to write the film company at length.  This abuse of Adam was intolerable.  She told the driver so.  The driver agreed.

He reported, “I was settin’ next to Miss Webb.”

“That’s Dammy’s girl, Papa.  Go on, Sam.  What did Edie say?”

“Well,” said the driver, “she liked seein’ the kid.  She cried, anyhow.”

Mrs. Egg was charmed by the girl’s good sense.  The moon looked like a quartered orange over the orchard.

She sighed, “Well, he’ll be home Wednesday night, anyhow.  Edie ain’t old enough to get married yet.  Hey, what’s the house all lit up for?  Sadie ought to know better.”

She prepared a lecture for the cook.  The motor shot up the drive into a babble and halted at the steps.  Someone immense rose from a chair and leaped down the space in one stride.

Adam said, “H’lo, Mamma,” and opened the car door.

Mrs. Egg squealed.  The giant lifted her out of her seat and carried her into the sitting room.  The amazing muscles rose in the flat of his back.  She thought his overshirt ripped.  The room spun.  Adam fanned her with his cap and grinned.

“Worst of radiograms,” he observed; “the boys say Papa went on to meet me.  Well, it’ll give him a trip.  Quit cryin’, Mamma.”

“Oh, Dammy, and there ain’t nothin’ fit to eat in the house!”

Adam grinned again.  The farmhands dispersed at his nod.  Mrs. Egg beat down her sobs with both hands and decried the radio service that could turn Sunday into Tuesday.  Here was Adam, though, silently grinning, his hands available, willing to eat anything she had in the pantry.  Mrs. Egg crowed her rapture in a dozen bursts.

The whispering voice crept into a pause with, “You’ll be wantin’ to talk to your boy, daughter.  I’ll go to bed, I guess.”