wasn't so much a wave as a clutching. A clutching after
something beyond her reach.

"Which one? Which one, Emily?"

"The handsome one. The handsome one." Her voice quavered and
died.

Jo put a steady hand on her shoulder. "Point him out," he
commanded "Show me." And the next instant, "Never mind. I
see him."

Somehow, miraculously, he had picked him from among the hundreds.
Had picked him as surely as his own father might have. It was
Emily's boy. He was marching by, rather stiffly. He was
nineteen, and fun-loving, and he had a girl, and he didn't
particularly want to go to France and--to go to France. But more
than he had hated going, he had hated not to go. So he marched
by, looking straight ahead, his jaw set so that his chin stuck
out just a little. Emily's boy.

Jo looked at him, and his face flushed purple. His eyes, the
hard-boiled eyes of a Loop-hound, took on the look of a sad old
man. And suddenly he was no longer Jo, the sport; old J. Hertz,
the gay dog. He was Jo Hertz, thirty, in love with life, in love
with Emily, and with the stinging blood of young manhood coursing
through his veins.

Another minute and the boy had passed on up the broad street--the
fine, flag-bedecked street--just one of a hundred service hats