He ordered meat and drink for them, gave them money, made a joke or two
as he limped among them, yet felt an alien. He watched them wistfully,
seeing for the first time their sordidness, seeing what he himself had
been, more sordid than any, because of his greater opportunities.
Sitting apart, he judged them, judged himself. If all the world were
like these men, what kind of world would it be?
"Why aren't you fellows fighting?" he asked suddenly.
They stared at him. Grumbled. Why should they fight? One of them
wept over it, called himself too old--.
But there were young men among them. "For God's sake get out of
this--let me help you get out." The General stood up, leaned on his
cane. "Look here, I've done a lot of things in my time--things like
this--" his arm swept out towards the table, "and now I've only one
good foot--the other will never be alive again. But you young chaps,
you've got two good feet--to march. Do you know what that means, to
march? Left, right, left, right and step out bravely--. Yankee Doodle
and your heads up, flags flying? And you sit here like this?"
Two of the men had risen, young and strong.
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