You say in your letter--I
certainly was glad to get that letter--well, you say I have things to do
more important than "girls." Dora, I think you probably know without my
saying so that of course while I have got important things to do, just
as every man over here has, and everybody at home, for that matter,
well, the thing that is most important in the world to me, next to
helping win this war, it's reading the next letter from you.
Don't forget how glad I'll be to get it, and don't forget you didn't
have anything to do with my being over here. That was--it was something
else. And you bet, whatever happens I'm glad I came! Don't ever forget
_that_!
Dora knew it was "something else." Her memory went back to her first
recollection of him in school: from that time on he had been just an
ordinary, everyday boy, floundering somehow through his lessons in
school and through his sweethearting with Milla, as the millions of
other boys floundered along with their own lessons and their own
Millas. She saw him swinging his books and romping homeward from the
schoolhouse, or going whistling by her father's front yard, rattling
a stick on the fence as he went, care-free and masterful, but shy as a
deer if strangers looked at him, and always "not much of a talker.
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