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"Think we rather had them, eh, Graham?"
"Think you did, sir. Carried them off their feet. Pretty, isn't
it?" He held up the shell-case. "If a fellow could only forget
what the damned things are for!"
"They are to help to end the war," said Clayton, crisply. "Don't
forget that, boy." And went back to his steady dictation.
Graham went out of the building into the mill yard. The noise always
irritated him. He had none of Clayton's joy and understanding of it.
To Clayton each sound had its corresponding activity. To Graham it
was merely din, an annoyance to his ears, as the mill yard outraged
his fastidiousness. But that morning he found it rather more
bearable. He stooped where, in front of the store, the storekeeper
had planted a tiny garden. Some small late-blossoming chrysanthemums
were still there and he picked one and put it in his buttonhole.
His own office was across the yard. He dodged in front of a yard
locomotive, picked his way about masses of lumber and the general
litter of all mill yards, and opened the door of his own building.


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