"Well!" he stated, without waiting for them to speak. "It's come."
Ranny stared. "Come?" he repeated. "What are you talking about, Dumpling? What's come?"
Vedder puffed out his fat cheeks. "War!" he said solemnly.
For an instant no one spoke. Dale felt a queer, tingling thrill go through him. The thing seemed unreal, impossible. Somehow these past few weeks of delay and hesitation had thrust the idea farther and farther into the background of his mind. He caught a glimpse of Parker's face, dazed and incredulous.
"Yep," nodded Vedder. "The President made a fine speech last night to Congress, or something. I heard 'em talking about it at the post-office. Everybody's as excited as the dickens. I guess it's in all the papers, too, only Mr. Curtis's wasn't open."
Dale's eyes sought headquarters tent. Under the rolled-up flap he could see the scoutmaster sitting on his cot, his head bent intently over an outspread paper. Again that curious tingling went through the boy. Behind him the shouts and laughter of the approaching crowd seemed suddenly incongruous and out of place. He glanced again at Vedder, whose round face still radiated self-importance, and wondered how the boy could look so smug and complacent.
"Did Congress declare war?" asked Ranny, abruptly.
"I dunno; I guess so. They're going to raise a whopping army. I heard one man say everybody from nineteen to twenty-five would have to go."
"_Have_ to go!" shrilled Court Parker. "Why, they'll _want_ to go, won't they? I wish I was more than sixteen."
Unconsciously the four were moving toward the scoutmaster's tent. Others, hearing a word or two, caught up with them, and the news was passed quickly along. The throng paused at the tent entrance. Dale caught a glimpse of the newspaper across the top of which flared in black capitals:
"It's true, then, Mr. Curtis!" Ranny Phelps exclaimed. "I thought it was coming. When are they going to--"
"Hold your horses, Ranny," interrupted the scoutmaster. He stood up and came toward them, his face curiously elated. "There's no time to answer a lot of questions now. Mess-call will sound any time. Hustle and wash up, fellows, and after dinner we'll talk this over."
Curious and excited as they were, no one protested. They scattered to their tents, chattering volubly, and the mess-call found them still speculating and asking questions of one another. During the meal the discussion continued but in a slightly more subdued key. A state of things which at first had seemed merely exciting and soul-stirring was coming home more keenly. They were beginning to make individual applications. Captain Chalmers would be called out, of course. Though over thirty, Mr. Curtis himself might enlist. Then some one thought suddenly of Wesley Becker, who was just nineteen. That seemed the strangest thing of all, for Wes, despite his semi-leadership, was merely one of themselves. But of course it was all the merest speculation; they didn't really know anything yet. So when the meal was over and Mr. Curtis rose slowly in his place, there was a long, concerted sigh of relaxing tension.