Part 2

The baker’s boy flushed with indignation.

“Sure, I know that,” he protested; “but my horse--HE don’t know that!”

Lathrop slung his rifle over his shoulder and his leg over his bicycle.

“If the Reds catch you,” he warned, in parting, “they’ll take everything you’ve got.”

“The Blues have took most of it already,” wailed the boy. “And just as they were paying me the battle begun, and this horse run away, and I couldn’t get him to come back for my money.”

“War,” exclaimed Lathrop morosely, “is always cruel to the innocent.” He sped toward Carver Centre. In his motor car, he had travelled the road many times, and as always his goal had been the home of Miss Beatrice Farrar, he had covered it at a speed unrecognized by law. But now he advanced with stealth and caution. In every clump of bushes he saw an ambush. Behind each rock he beheld the enemy.

In a clearing was a group of Portuguese cranberry pickers, dressed as though for a holiday. When they saw the man in uniform, one of the women hailed him anxiously.

“Is the parade coming?” she called.

“Have you seen any of the Reds?” Lathrop returned.

“No,” complained the woman. “And we been waiting all morning. When will the parade come?”

“It’s not a parade,” said Lathrop, severely. “It’s a war!”

The summer home of Miss Farrar stood close to the road. It had been so placed by the farmer who built it, in order that the women folk might sit at the window and watch the passing of the stage-coach and the peddler. Great elms hung over it, and a white fence separated the road from the narrow lawn. At a distance of a hundred yards a turn brought the house into view, and at this turn, as had been his manoeuvre at every other possible ambush, Lathrop dismounted and advanced on foot. Up to this moment the road had been empty, but now, in front of the Farrar cottage, it was blocked by a touring-car and a station wagon. In the occupants of the car he recognized all the members of the Farrar family, except Miss Farrar. In the station wagon were all of the Farrar servants. Miss Farrar herself was leaning upon the gate and waving them a farewell. The touring-car moved off down the road; the station wagon followed; Miss Farrar was alone. Lathrop scorched toward her, and when he was opposite the gate, dug his toes in the dust and halted. When he lifted his broad-brimmed campaign hat, Miss Farrar exclaimed both with surprise and displeasure. Drawing back from the gate she held herself erect. Her attitude was that of one prepared for instant retreat. When she spoke it was in tones of extreme disapproval.

“You promised,” said the girl, “you would not come to see me.”

Lathrop, straddling his bicycle, peered anxiously down the road.

“This is not a social call,” he said. “I’m on duty. Have you seen the Reds?”

His tone was brisk and alert, his manner preoccupied. The ungraciousness of his reception did not seem in the least to disconcert him.

But Miss Farrar was not deceived. She knew him, not only as a persistent and irrepressible lover, but as one full of guile, adroit in tricks, fertile in expedients. He was one who could not take “No” for an answer--at least not from her. When she repulsed him she seemed to grow in his eyes only the more attractive.

“It is not the lover who comes to woo,” he was constantly explaining, “but the lover’s WAY of wooing.”

Miss Farrar had assured him she did not like his way. She objected to being regarded and treated as a castle that could be taken only by assault. Whether she wished time to consider, or whether he and his proposal were really obnoxious to her, he could not find out. His policy of campaign was that she, also, should not have time to find out. Again and again she had agreed to see him only on the condition that he would not make love to her. He had promised again and again, and had failed to keep that promise. Only a week before he had been banished from her presence, to remain an exile until she gave him permission to see her at her home in New York. It was not her purpose to return there for two weeks, and yet here he was, a beggar at her gate. It might be that he was there, as he said, “on duty,” but her knowledge of him and of the doctrine of chances caused her to doubt it.

“Mr. Lathrop!” she began, severely.

As though to see to whom she had spoken Lathrop glanced anxiously over his shoulder. Apparently pained and surprised to find that it was to him she had addressed herself, he regarded her with deep reproach. His eyes were very beautiful. It was a fact which had often caused Miss Farrar extreme annoyance.

He shook his head sadly.

“‘Mr. Lathrop?’” he protested. “You know that to you I am always ‘Charles--Charles the Bold,’ because I am bold to love you; but never ‘Mr. Lathrop,’ unless,” he went on briskly, “you are referring to a future state, when, as Mrs. Lathrop, you will make me--”

Miss Farrar had turned her back on him, and was walking rapidly up the path.

“Beatrice,” he called. “I am coming after you!”

Miss Farrar instantly returned and placed both hands firmly upon the gate.

“I cannot understand you!” she said. “Don’t you see that when you act as you do now, I can’t even respect you? How do you think I could ever care, when you offend me so? You jest at what you pretend is the most serious thing in your life. You play with it--laugh at it!”

The young man interrupted her sharply.