the old man was very shrunken and feeble and like most aged people he had an impersonal way about him as though he saw the world but not its people individually. he seemed to take wilfred for granted. he did not allude to the difficulty of crossing the street.
“i want to get my check,” he said.
“yes, where is it?” wilfred asked him.
“it’s in the post office; some months it’s late but not usually. i got to go to kingston for examination on the twenty-fifth.”
“oh, you mean your pension?” wilfred asked.
“you know doctor garrison there?”
“no, i don’t know anybody in kingston,” wilfred said.
“he’s the one i’ll have.”
“yes, what for?”
“pension raise. i put in an application; if i’m bad enough off i’ll get it. it’ll be raised from fifty to eighty. i can’t see none out of this yere eye, this left one. i got a claim on total disable; can’t work no more.”
wilfred was about to say that he hoped his charge might be “bad enough off.” but he thought it would not sound well to say that.
“two eyes does it sure,” the old man said. “i ony got a single eye. but i got rheumatiz, that oughter help. trouble is gettin’ there.”
the words single eye used so innocently by this poor, little old man, made wilfred wince a little, for he had ceased to think about the lost emblem.
“i gotta get t’ the kingston hospital,” said the old man. “if the doctor looks me over he’ll pass me; i got a bad heart too. that’s like ter be total disable, ain’t it? i ain’t hankerin’ after bein’ shook up by one of them buses; i got sciatici too—comes and goes. them doctors is on the watchout on total disable work.”
it seemed to wilfred that this poor old man had more ailments than he really needed, that he possessed a small fortune in the way of infirmities. he took him to the post office and watched the poor, old, shriveled hand tremblingly open the long envelope in which uncle sam, without letter or salutation of any kind, enclosed his monthly check which was the sole support of the old veteran. the old man took particular pains proudly to explain to wilfred that any merchant would cash that check; he even offered to demonstrate the government’s credit by inviting wilfred to witness the transaction in the adjoining drug store. it was plain that he believed in uncle sam.
while his friend was in the drug store on this momentous monthly business, wilfred stamped and mailed his letter home and listened to a few words from the loquacious postmaster touching the old man.
“who is he? oh, that’s pop winters. he saw smoke in his day, that old codger. he lives in that little shack up the road where you see the flag out.”
going to the door, wilfred looked up a by-road and saw a dilapidated little shack with a muslin flag flying on a rake-handle outside it.
“does he live there alone?” he asked.
“yes, but he won’t long. i guess he’ll go to the home before winter. he can’t live and buy coal on what he gets—not the way things are now.”
“he expects to have his pension raised,” wilfred said.
“gosh, he ought to,” said the postmaster.
wilfred took the old man home. in the single room which the little dwelling contained was an atrocious crayon portrait of “pop,” executed many years back, showing him resplendent in his blue uniform and peaked cap. there was an old-fashioned center table with a white marble top on which lay a copy of general grant’s memoirs. there was a picture of lincoln; the shrewd, kindly humorous face seemed to be smiling at wilfred; he could not get away from it.
“i tell you what i’ll do,” wilfred said. “i’ll come for you on the twenty-fifth and take you to kingston and bring you back.”
“i wouldn’t go in none of them automobiles,” pop warned.
“oh, i haven’t got an automobile, never fear,” wilfred laughed. “but i’ve got the use of a horse and buggy and i know how to drive; that’s one thing i know how to do—and swim.”
“i got maybe to wait all day,” said the old man.
“all right, then i’ll wait too.”
the old man seemed incredulous. yet, oddly, he did not ask wilfred who he was or where he belonged. it was only the offer that interested him.
“more’n like you wouldn’t come,” he said.
“more’n like i would,” said wilfred. “you don’t know me; if i say i’ll do a thing, i’ll do it. you’ve got so much trust in the government, i don’t see why you can’t trust me.”
the old man seemed impressed by this masterly argument.
“you needn’t be afraid i won’t come,” urged wilfred. “i’ll come with a buggy and all.”
“at ten o’clock?” said the old man.
“earlier than that if you say.”
“if you say you’ll come and you don’t, i got to wait a year for examination.”
“yes, but didn’t you hear me say i will come?”
“i’ll be lookin’ for you,” said the old man. wilfred watched him totter over to a calendar and laboriously pick out the twenty-fifth of the month. then, with shaking hand he marked a cross upon the figures with a lead pencil. the shrewd, kindly eyes of lincoln seemed to look straight at wilfred as if to say, “now you’re in for it.”
