At every turn Chuck left her side and dashed around behind her in order to place himself at her right again, according to the rigid rule of Chippewa etiquette.  He took her arm only at street crossings until they reached the tracks, which perilous spot seemed to justify him in retaining his hold throughout the remainder of the stroll.  Usually they lost Cora and Scotty without having been conscious of their loss.

Their talk?  The girls and boys that each knew; the day’s happenings at factory and express office; next Wednesday night’s dance up in the Chute; and always the possibility of Chuck’s leaving the wagon and assuming the managership of the office.

“Don’t let this go any further, see?  But I heard it straight that old Benke is goin’ to be transferred to Fond du Lac.  And if he is, why, I step in, see?  Benke’s got a girl in Fondy, and he’s been pluggin’ to get there.  Gee, maybe I won’t be glad when he does!” A little silence.  “Will you be glad, Tess?  H’m?”

Tess felt herself glowing and shivering as the big hand closed more tightly on her arm.  “Me?  Why, sure I’ll be pleased to see you get a job that’s coming to you by rights, and that’ll get you better pay, and all.”

But she knew what he meant, and he knew she knew.  And the clasp tightened until it hurt her, and she was glad.

* * * * *

No more of that now.  Chuck—­gone.  Scotty—­gone.  All the boys at the watch works, all the fellows in the neighbourhood—­gone.  At first she hadn’t minded.  It was exciting.  You kidded them at first:  “Well, believe me, Chuck, if you shoot the way you play ball, you’re a gone goose already.”

“All you got to do, Scotty, is to stick that face of yours up over the top of the trench and the Germans’ll die of fright an’ save you wastin’ bullets.”

There was a great knitting of socks and sweaters and caps.  Tessie’s big-knuckled, capable fingers made you dizzy, they flew so fast.  Chuck was outfitted as for a polar expedition.  Tess took half a day off to bid him good-bye.  They marched down Grand Avenue, that first lot of them, in their everyday suits and hats, with their shiny yellow suitcases and their paste-board boxes in their hands, sheepish, red-faced, awkward.  In their eyes, though, a certain look.  And so off for Camp Sherman, their young heads sticking out of the car windows in clusters—­black, yellow, brown, red.  But for each woman on the depot platform there was just one head.  Tessie saw a blurred blond one with a misty halo around it.  A great shouting and waving of handkerchiefs: 

“Goo’-bye!  Goo’-bye!  Write, now!  Be sure!  Mebbe you can get off in a week, for a visit.  Goo’-bye!  Goo—­”

They were gone.  Their voices came back to the crowd on the depot platform—­high, clear young voices; almost like the voices of children, shouting.

Well, you wrote letters; fat, bulging letters, and in turn you received equally plump envelopes with a red triangle in one corner.  You sent boxes of homemade fudge (nut variety) and cookies and the more durable forms of cake.