He looked more like crying then than any other time. He said,
"Good-bye, May; won't you change your mind?" and she said, "Oh, no,
Burt, I can't." Then he was going to say something else when I said,
"Remember the Colonel, Uncle Burt, and don't get your eyes too red to
go," and then they both laughed. Uncle Burt said, "Look after Miss Heath
for me, Billy, while I'm gone," and I said, "Sure I will. I'm going to
adopt her as my Aunty, too." She put her arms round me and hugged me and
Uncle Burt said, "Lucky Billy," and then the door closed, and Aunty
Edith began to cry and Aunty May looked queer for a minute and went to
the door. I thought she'd run after him, but she stopped and said,
"Come along, Sir William, and we'll pack our bags, 'cause we're all
going to the country on the 3.10." And I took hold of her hand, and we
went upstairs together, and packed my bag and put in my gun, my
soldiers, my books and my paint-box. Then Aunty Edith stopped crying and
tied a veil over her face. If she'd been a soldier she'd been left home
all right.

We got in a taxi with a lot of bags and things and went to the
Pennsylvania Station, which is miles and miles long, I think, but there
are lots of kind black men who wear red caps and run up and take your
bags and carry them for you just as easy, One of them took my bag and
Aunty May's suitcase, but Aunty Edith had another one--a fat one--all
alone for her things.

We just had time for our train, so we had to hurry right through the
waiting-room, and I couldn't stop and see all the things there are to
see, or watch the people coming down the stairs. People's legs are funny
if you watch them coming down--like things made with hinges.

Then we got into a nice big train with chairs in it that swung round.