. The American Legion Weekly [Volume 3, No. 35 (September 2, 1921)]. his captor and gave asudden tug. The M. grasp re-laxed and Feeser settled down amidcans and broken bottles. The helped him regain his feetbut, instead of resuming their course,drew him farther into the shadows,saying no word and watching towardthe street, as though fearful of wit-nesses. A sense of impending evil came toPrivate Feeser. A trickling, pricklingchill originated directly beneath thecrown of his hat and crept stealthilydownward; the power of movement de-serted him; his mouth became —he had overdone
. The American Legion Weekly [Volume 3, No. 35 (September 2, 1921)]. his captor and gave asudden tug. The M. grasp re-laxed and Feeser settled down amidcans and broken bottles. The helped him regain his feetbut, instead of resuming their course,drew him farther into the shadows,saying no word and watching towardthe street, as though fearful of wit-nesses. A sense of impending evil came toPrivate Feeser. A trickling, pricklingchill originated directly beneath thecrown of his hat and crept stealthilydownward; the power of movement de-serted him; his mouth became —he had overdone it! He hadmade the M. P. angry! He had heardterrible tales—he might have knownbetter—here he was, out of sight, outof hearing—for the first time in hislife he could love an officer, if onewould only come—right now— Say, bud, said the M. P., give usa drink, will you? Sorry I had to makeall the fuss. You know how it is—everybody standing around. Give us adrink—and beat it! Hurry up! Feeser could not speak just yet. TheM. P. hastily ran his hands over. made practish—beat up th furrs sarjent; PAGE 8 THE AMERICAN LEGION WEEKLY Feesers garments, but discovered nosignificant bulge. Go to hell, he remarked in a surly,disappointed voice as he turned andstrode away. Go to hell, answered Feeserpolitely, in a whisper that seemed tocome from a dream. Fifteen minutes later Feeser sat inthe back room of a certain pool andsoft drink emporium where gatherednightly the swinish, the unwashed, thevulgar; pot-walloper, slubberdegullionand second-story man; scum of thescum and riff of the raff. Also thethirsty. Window shades nailed down,lights dimmed, conversation low, facestense, whiskey rotten. The Saloon,model of 1921. No, I will not tell youwhere it is. When he left this establishment hisstep was sprightly and a gentle, kindlyglow suffused his lengthy frame. Rich-ard was himself again. He took themain route to camp. He couldnt trusthimself to remain downtown. Hemight run into t
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