Mrs. Minks Soldier and Other Stories | Page 4

tell about it. And
in the telling she subordinated everything to the dramatic climax:

"I never was so took back in my life!" she said. "After setting there for
four mortal hours with nothing to say, just boring each other to death,
for him to get up like that and make a regular play-actor bow, and kiss
my hand! Well, I never was so took back!"
And judging from the number of times Miss Mink told the story, and
the conscious smile with which she concluded it, it was evident that she
was not averse to being "took back."
By the time Sunday arrived she had worked herself up to quite a state
of excitement. Would Bowinski he at church? Would he sit on her side
of the congregation? Would he wait after the service to speak to her?
She put on her best bonnet, which was usually reserved for funerals,
and pinned a bit of thread lace over the shabby collar of her coat.
The moment she entered church all doubts were dispelled. There in her
pew, quite as if he belonged there, sat the tall young Russian. He even
stepped into the aisle for her to pass in, helped her off with her coat,
and found the place for her in the hymn-book. Miss Mink realized with
a glow of satisfaction, that many curious heads were craning in her
direction. For the first time since she had gone forward forty years ago
to confess her faith, she was an object of interest to the congregation!
When the benediction was pronounced several women came forward
ostensibly to speak to her, but in reality to ask Bowinski to go home to
dinner with them. She waived them all aside.
"No, he's going with me!" she announced firmly, and Bowinski
obediently picked up his hat and accompanied her.
For the following month this scene was enacted each Sunday, with little
change to outward appearances but with great change to Miss Mink
herself. In the mothering of Bowinski she had found the great
adventure of her life. She mended his clothes, and made fancy dishes
for him, she knit him everything that could be knitted, including an
aviator's helmet for which he had no possible use. She talked about "my
soldier" to any one who would listen.
Bowinski accepted her attention with grave politeness. He wore the
things she made for him, he ate the things she cooked for him, he
answered all her questions and kissed her hand at parting. Miss Mink
considered his behavior perfect.
One snowy Sunday in late November Miss Mink was thrown into a
panic by his failure to appear on Sunday morning. She confided to

Sister Bacon in the adjoining pew that she was afraid he had been sent
to France. Sister Bacon promptly whispered to her husband that he had
been sent to France, and the rumor spread until after church quite a
little group gathered around Miss Mink to hear about it.
"What was his company?" some one asked.
"Company C, 47th Infantry," Miss Mink repeated importantly.
"Why, that's my boy's company," said Mrs. Bacon. "They haven't gone
to France."
The thought of her soldier being in the trenches even, was more
tolerable to Miss Mink than the thought of his being in town and failing
to come to her for Sunday dinner.
"I bet he's sick," she announced. "I wish I could find out."
Mrs. Bacon volunteered to ask her Jim about him, and three days later
stopped by Miss Mink's cottage to tell her that Bowinski had broken his
leg over a week before and was in the Base Hospital.
"Can anybody go out there that wants to?" demanded Miss Mink.
"Yes, on Sundays and Wednesdays. But you can't count on the cars
running to-day. Jim says everything's snowed under two feet deep."
Miss Mink held her own counsel but she knew what she was going to
do. Her soldier was in trouble, he had no family or friends. She was
going to him.
With trembling fingers she packed a small basket with some apples, a
jar of jelly and a slice of cake. There was no time for her own lunch, so
she hurriedly put on her coat and twisting a faded scarf about her neck
trudged out into the blustery afternoon.
The blizzard of the day before had almost suspended traffic, and when
she finally succeeded in getting a car, it was only to find that it ran no
farther than the city limits.
"How much farther is it to the Camp?" Miss Mink asked desperately.
"About a mile," said the conductor. "I wouldn't try it if I was you, the
walking's fierce."
But Miss Mink was not to be turned back. Gathering her skirts as high
as her sense of propriety