OCR Text |
Show jf CfjrfetmaS faBf Cfjrfetmatf ft J3 iHilton JljoMtin M U SECOND PRIZE STORY fj tion restaurant again. The wifts of steam .still eminated from the coffee, and the stove seemed to ( have taken on a new warmth. From the little kitchen the same waiter hustled forward. His face was still unshaven, but it did not seem quite so offensive to the customer cus-tomer now. "A porterhouse steak," ordered Eric, "and smother it in onions. Christmas is coming up, you know." The railway station lunch wagon's wag-on's antiquated stove gave off scarcely enough heat to warm its ione customer from the flurries of tne snow outside. Watery coffee boiled on the small gas stove, sending send-ing small wifts oi steam to the ceiling. Eric Parkes was seated at the end of the counter, his heavy army coat thrown over the two large wigs which held his civilian ciotnes. Ilis hand stole to the pocket of the khaki trousers to pick out a crumpled, official-looking letter, and keen, blue, but discouraged dis-couraged eyes picked out the neatly-typed words for perhaps the lortieth time: Christmas Leaves Cancelled Report to Camp Dec. 24. 'And today was the 24. Only one. day before Christmas. In a few hours he would be in camp, eating from a taDle with CO other men, who would be just as discouraged discour-aged as himself. "And they talk of boosting army morale," he sighed. The waiter, a little man with a heavy jaw covered with a two day growth of beard, bustled in. Those whiskers annoyed Eric. Why didn't the fellow shave? Replacing the envelope, he found himself asking for a cup of the weak-looking coffee. Bolting it down, he buttoned up the stout coat and stepped into the falling snow outside. "Better let mom know," he mut-teredV mut-teredV Then, more self-sympathe-tically, "Tell her not to reserve a place for me." He started for the Postal Telegraph, and felt a tap on his shoulder. Eric wheeled about, faced a little old lady with an old veiled hat. She spoke, and the lines in her face seemed to disappear. "I saw by your uniform you're a soldier. I thought you might be my son, from Camp Roberts." "I'm sorry, I'm from San Luis." He turned to go. "But he must be at the station," the mother insisted, "because he's coming home for Christmas." "I'm sorry," Eric reiterated, "but all leaves have been cancelled." cancel-led." He wondered if his mother were as anxious about him, concluded con-cluded she was. The lady smiled wanly. "Well, they say the eats are good in the army, and anywhere you are, Christmas is Christmas." She turned away with a slight sob. Erick watched her disappear in the crowd of late travelers and shoppers. He shrugged his shoulders should-ers carelessly, but nevertheless could not free himself from the thought that no one had the right to hamper a man from returning home at Christmas. No one! An overwhelming desire to return re-turn home seized him. Go A. W. 0. L? Why not. He started for the train, darted in line for tickets. tick-ets. From the huge broadcasting amp. lifier came the soft sound of the "Cantique de Noel," and all the persons in the station paused to listen. As Eric felt the soft tones thrill him, he recalled the little old lady's . words, "Christmas is Christmas, wherever you are." Quietly he slipped out of the line, the emotionalism of the past moment mo-ment balanced once again. When the strains of the music had passed, Eric picked up his bags and entered the small sta- |