He knew there was going to be a rumpus at home and I suppose that was why he put it off to the very end, not wanting to be plagued to death or cried over.  But when he got into his uniform and had done a spell of goose-step with the first sergeant, he was so blamed rattled about going home that he had to take me along too.  He lived away off somewheres in a poorish sort of neighbourhood, all little frame houses and little front yards about that big, where you could see commuters watering Calla lilies in their city clothes.  Benny’s house seemed the smallest and poorest of the lot, though it had Calla lilies too and other sorts of flowers, and a mat with “welcome” on it, and some kind of a dog that licked our hands as we walked up the front steps and answered to the name of Dook.

Benny pushed open the door and went in, me at his heels, and both of us nervous as cats.  His mother was sitting in a rocker, reading the evening paper with gold spectacles, and I never saw such a straight-backed old lady in my life, nor any so tall and thin and commanding.  She looked up at us, kind of startled to see two soldiers walking into her kitchen, and Benny smiled a silly smile and said: 

“Mommer, I’m off to help Dooey in the Fillypines!”

I guess he thought she’d jump at him or something, for he had always been a mother’s boy and minded everything she said, though he was twenty-eight years old and rising-nine—­but all she did was to draw in her breath sharp and sudden, so you could hear the whistle of it, and then two big tears rolled out under her specs.

“Don’t feel bad about it, Mommer,” said Benny in a snuffly voice.

She never said a word, but got up from the chair and came over to where Benny was, very white and trembly, and looking at his army coat like it was a shroud.

“Oh, my son, my son!” she said, kind of choking over the words.

“I couldn’t stay behind when all the boys was going,” he said.

I saw he was holding back all he could to keep from crying, and I didn’t blame him either, as we was to sail the next day and the old lady was his Ma.  It’s them good-byes that break a soldier all up.  So I lit out and played with the dog and made him jump through my hands and fetch sticks and give his paw (he was quite a re-markable dog, that dog, though his breeding wasn’t much), while I could hear them inside, talking and talking, and the old lady’s voice running on about the danger of drink and how he mustn’t sleep in wet clothes or give back-talk to his officers—­it was wonderful the horse-sense that old lady had—­and how he must respeck the uniform he wore and be cheerful and willing and brave, like his sainted father who was dead—­all that mothers say and sometimes what soldiers do—­and through it all there was a pleasant rattle of dishes and the sound of the fire being poked up, and Benny asking where’s the table-cloth, and was there another pie?  By and by I was called in, and there, sure enough, the table was spread, and we were both made to sit down while the old lady skirmished around and wiped her eyes when we weren’t looking.