THE GAY COCKADE


From the moment that Jimmie Harding came into the office, he created an
atmosphere. We were a tired lot. Most of us had been in the government
service for years, and had been ground fine in the mills of departmental
monotony.

But Jimmie was young, and he wore his youth like a gay cockade. He
flaunted it in our faces, and because we were so tired of our dull and
desiccated selves, we borrowed of him, remorselessly, color and
brightness until, gradually, in the light of his reflected glory, we
seemed a little younger, a little less tired, a little less petrified.

In his gay and gallant youth there was, however, a quality which partook
of earlier times. He should, we felt, have worn a feather in his
cap--and a cloak instead of his Norfolk coat. He walked with a little
swagger, and stood with his hand on his hip, as if his palm pressed the
hilt of his sword. If he ever fell in love, we told one another, he
would, without a doubt, sing serenades and apostrophize the moon.

He did fall in love before he had been with us a year. His love-affair
was a romance for the whole office. He came among us every morning
glorified; he left us in the afternoon as a knight enters upon a quest.

He told us about the girl. We pictured her perfectly before we saw her,