"We were just about to leave. We thought you weren't coming
home."

Jo came in slowly.

"I was in the jam on Michigan, watching the boys go by." He
sat down, heavily. The light from the window fell on him. And
you saw that his eyes were red.

He had found himself one of the thousands in the jam on Michigan
Avenue, as he said. He had a place near the curb, where his big
frame shut off the view of the unfortunates behind him. He
waited with the placid interest of one who has subscribed to all
the funds and societies to which a prosperous, middle-aged
businessman is called upon to subscribe in war-time. Then, just
as he was about to leave, impatient at the delay, the crowd had
cried, with a queer, dramatic, exultant note in its voice, "Here
they come! Here come the boys!"

Just at that moment two little, futile, frenzied fists began to
beat a mad tattoo on Jo Hertz's broad back. Jo tried to turn in
the crowd, all indignant resentment. "Say, looka here!"

The little fists kept up their frantic beating and pushing. And
a voice--a choked, high little voice--cried, "Let me by! I
can't see! You MAN, you! You big fat man! My boy's going by--to
war--and I can't see! Let me by!"

Jo scrooged around, still keeping his place. He looked down.