"Me?" he said. "Me, Miss Carberry? My God, no."
Well, about two o'clock Charlie Sands came in. Tish saw him the moment he entered the door, and stopped work to watch him. But he made no attempt to register. He said he was doing a column of slackers for the next morning's paper.
"There's aren't many," he said, "but of course there are some. The license court is the place to nail them."
"Do you mean to tell me," Tish demanded, "that there are traitors in this country who are getting married today?"
"There are," said Charlie Sands, sitting down on the fire truck. "Even so, beloved aunt. They are gettng married so they can claim exemption because of a dependent wife. And I'll bet the orphan asylums are full of fellows trying to get ready-made families."
Tish is a composed and self-restrained woman, but she spoke so distinctly of how she felt about such conduct that Charlie Murray, our grocer's assistant, who has four children, did not so much as mention them when she made out his card.
"Of course," Charlie Sands observed, "I don't want to dictate to you, because you're doing all that can be expected of you now. But if some one would go to the license court and tell those
