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strap may mean instant death。 Usually the girls laughed and called back
to them or went on more quickly； the color in their cheeks a little higher。
But not Anastasia Rourke。 Early the first morning of a two…week job
on the new plant of the Western Castings Company； Chet Ball； glancing
down from his dizzy perch atop an electric…light pole； espied Miss
Anastasia Rourke going to work。 He didn't know her name or anything
about her； except that she was pretty。 You could see that from a distance
even more remote than Chet's。 But you couldn't know that Stasia was a
lady not to be trifled with。 We know her name was Rourke； but he didn't。
So then： 〃Hoo…hoo！〃 he had called。 〃Hello； sweetheart！ Wait for
me and I'll be down。〃
Stasia Rourke had lifted her face to where he perched so high above
the streets。 Her cheeks were five shades pinker than was their wont；
which would make them border on the red。
〃You big ape； you！〃 she called； in her clear； crisp voice。 〃If you had
your foot on the ground you wouldn't dast call to a decent girl like that。
If you were down here I'd slap the face of you。 You know you're safe up
there。〃
The words were scarcely out of her mouth before Chet Ball's sturdy
legs were twinkling down the pole。 His spurred heels dug into the soft
pine of the pole with little ripe； tearing sounds。 He walked up to Stasia
and stood squarely in front of her； six feet of brawn and brazen nerve。
One ruddy cheek he presented to her astonished gaze。 〃Hello；
sweetheart；〃 he said。 And waited。 The Rourke girl hesitated just a
second。 All the Irish heart in her was melting at the boyish impudence of
the man before her。 Then she lifted one hand and slapped his smooth
cheek。 It was a ringing slap。 You saw the four marks of her fingers
upon his face。 Chet straightened； his blue eyes bluer。 Stasia looked up
at him； her eyes wide。 Then down at her own hand； as if it belonged to
somebody else。 Her hand came up to her own face。 She burst into tears；
turned； and ran。 And as she ran； and as she wept； she saw that Chet was
still standing there； looking after her。
Next morning； when Stasia Rourke went by to work； Chet Ball was
standing at the foot of the pole； waiting。
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They were to have been married that next June。 But that next June
Chet Ball； perched perilously on the branch of a tree in a small woodsy
spot somewhere in France； was one reason why the American artillery in
that same woodsy spot was getting such a deadly range on the enemy。
Chet's costume was so devised that even through field glasses （made in
Germany） you couldn't tell where tree left off and Chet began。
Then； quite suddenly； the Germans got the range。 The tree in which
Chet was hidden came down with a crash； and Chet lay there； more than
ever indiscernible among its tender foliage。
Which brings us back to the English garden； the yellow chicken； Miss
Kate； and the letter。
His shattered leg was mended by one of those miracles of modern war
surgery； though he never again would dig his spurred heels into the pine of
a G。 L。 & P。 Company pole。 But the other thingthey put it down under
the broad general head of shock。 In the lovely English garden they set
him to weaving and painting as a means of soothing the shattered nerves。
He had made everything from pottery jars to bead chains； from baskets to
rugs。 Slowly the tortured nerves healed。 But the doctors； when they
stopped at Chet's cot or chair； talked always of 〃the memory center。〃
Chet seemed satisfied to go on placidly painting toys or weaving chains
with his great； square…tipped fingersthe fingers that had wielded the
pliers so cleverly in his pole…climbing days。
〃It's just something that only luck or an accident can mend；〃 said the
nerve specialist。 〃Time may do itbut I doubt it。 Sometimes just a
word the right wordwill set the thing in motion again。 Does he get
any letters？〃
〃His girl writes to him。 Fine letters。 But she doesn't know yet
about about this。 I've written his letters for him。 She knows now that
his leg is healed and she wonders〃
That had been a month ago。 Today Miss Kate slit the envelope post…
marked Chicago。 Chet was fingering the yellow wooden chicken； pride
in his eyes。 In Miss Kate's eyes there was a troubled； baffled look as she
began to read：
Chet； dear； it's raining in Chicago。 And you know when it
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rains in Chicago it's wetter； and muddier； and rainier than any
place in the world。 Except maybe this Flanders we're reading
so much about。 They say for rain and mud that place takes the
prize。
I don't know what I'm going on about rain and mud for； Chet
darling； when it's you I'm thinking of。 Nothing else and
nobody else。 Chet； I got a funny feeling there's something
you're keeping back from me。 You're hurt worse than just the
leg。 Boy； dear； don't you know it won't make any difference
with me how you look； or feel； or anything？ I don't care how
bad you're smashed up。 I'd rather have you without any
features at all than any other man with two sets。 Whatever's
happened to the outside of you； they can't change your
insides。 And you're the same man that called out to me that
day； 〃Hoo…hoo！ Hello； sweetheart！〃 and when I gave you a
piece of my mind； climbed down off the pole； and put your face
up to be slapped； God bless the boy in you
A sharp little sound from him。 Miss Kate looked up； quickly。 Chet
Ball was staring at the beady…eyed yellow chicken in his hand。
〃What's this thing？〃 he demanded in a strange voice。
Miss Kate answered him very quietly； trying to keep her own voice
easy and