 | Tales of the jazz age |  |
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At the termination of this interview, Benjamin wandered
dismally up-stairs and stared at himself in the
mirror. He had not shaved for three months, but he
could find nothing on his face but a faint white down
with which it seemed unnecessary to meddle. When he
had first come home from Harvard, Roscoe had approached
him with the proposition that he should wear
eye-glasses and imitation whiskers glued to his cheeks,
and it had seemed for a moment that the farce of his
early years was to be repeated. But whiskers had
had reluctantly relented.
Benjamin opened a book of boys' stories, "The Boy
Scouts in Bimini Bay," and began to read. But he
found himself thinking persistently about the war.
America had joined the Allied cause during the preceding
month, and Benjamin wanted to enlist, but, alas,
sixteen was the minimum age, and he did not look that
old. His true age, which was fifty-seven, would have
disqualified him, anyway.
There was a knock at his door, and the butler appeared
with a letter bearing a large official legend in
the corner and addressed to Mr. Benjamin Button.
Benjamin tore it open eagerly, and read the enclosure
with delight. It informed him that many reserve officers
who had served in the Spanish-American War were
being called back into service with a higher rank, and it
enclosed his commission as brigadier-general in the United
States army with orders to report immediately.
Benjamin jumped to his feet fairly quivering with
enthusiasm. This was what he had wanted. He seized
his cap and ten minutes later he had entered a large
tailoring establishment on Charles Street, and asked in
his uncertain treble to be measured for a uniform.
"Want to play soldier, sonny?" demanded a clerk,
casually.
Benjamin flushed. "Say! Never mind what I
want!" he retorted angrily. "My name's Button and
I live on Mt. Vernon Place, so you know I'm good for
it."
"Well," admitted the clerk, hesitantly, "if you're
not, I guess your daddy is, all right."
Benjamin was measured, and a week later his uniform
was completed. He had difficulty in obtaining the
proper general's insignia because the dealer kept insisting
would look just as well and be much more fun to play
with.
Saying nothing to Roscoe, he left the house one night
and proceeded by train to Camp Mosby, in South Carolina,
where he was to command an infantry brigade.
On a sultry April day he approached the entrance to
the camp, paid off the taxicab which had brought him
from the station, and turned to the sentry on guard.
"Get some one to handle my luggage!" he said briskly.
The sentry eyed him reproachfully. "Say," he remarked,
"where you goin' with the general's duds,
sonny?"
Benjamin, veteran of the Spanish-American War,
whirled upon him with fire in his eye, but with, alas,
a changing treble voice.
"Come to attention!" he tried to thunder; he paused
for breath—then suddenly he saw the sentry snap his
heels together and bring his rifle to the present. Benjamin
concealed a smile of gratification, but when he
glanced around his smile faded. It was not he who had
inspired obedience, but an imposing artillery colonel who
was approaching on horseback.
"Colonel!" called Benjamin shrilly.
The colonel came up, drew rein, and looked coolly
down at him with a twinkle in his eyes. "Whose little
boy are you?" he demanded kindly.
"I'll soon darn well show you whose little boy I
am!" retorted Benjamin in a ferocious voice. "Get
down off that horse!"
The colonel roared with laughter.
"You want him, eh, general?"
"Here!" cried Benjamin desperately. "Read this."
And he thrust his commission toward the colonel.
The colonel read it, his eyes popping from their sockets.
"Where'd you get this?" he demanded, slipping the
document into his own pocket.
"I got it from the Government, as you'll soon find
out!"
"You come along with me," said the colonel with a
peculiar look. "We'll go up to headquarters and talk
this over. Come along."
The colonel turned and began walking his horse in
the direction of headquarters. There was nothing for
Benjamin to do but follow with as much dignity as possible—meanwhile
promising himself a stern revenge.
But this revenge did not materialize. Two days
later, however, his son Roscoe materialized from Baltimore,
hot and cross from a hasty trip, and escorted the
weeping general, sans uniform, back to his home.
| Tales of the jazz age | |