I was coining money in New York, and would be now--if
they hadn't dug me out as a slacker--an _embusque_--whatever you like to
call it. I was a conscientious objector: that is, my conviction was it
would be sinful to risk a bullet in a chest full of music, like mine--a
treasure-chest. But the fools didn't see it in that light. They made
America too hot to hold either Giulio di Napoli or Julian O'Farrell. I'm
no coward--I swear to you I'm not, my dear girl! You've only to look me
square in the face to see I'm not. I'm full of fire. But ever since I
was a boy I've lived for my voice, and you can't die for your voice,
like you can for your country. It goes--pop!--with you. I managed to
convince the doctors that my heart was too jumpy for the trenches. I see
digitalis in your eye, Miss Trained Nurse! It wasn't. It was
strophantis. But they _would_ set me to driving a motor
ambulance--cold-hearted brutes! I got too near the front line one
day--or rather the front line got too near me, and a shell hit my
ambulance. The next thing I knew I was in hospital, and the first thing
I thought of was my voice. A frog would have disowned it. I hoped for a
while it might come right; but they sent me to St. Raphael for a sun
cure, and--it didn't work. That was last spring. I'm as well as I ever
was, except in my throat, and there the specialists say I need never
expect to be better. I'd change with your brother, Miss O'Malley. My
God, I would.
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