He left that house
the unquestioned master of himself, the acknowledged head of that
tiny household; he had won, and his victory instead of abating by
a hair's-breadth his mother's love for him had drawn the pair
closer to each other than ever before. Though she had no
articulate conception of it Georgie had risen enormously in his
mother's respect. The woman had given way to the man, and the
eternal fitness of things had been vindicated.
Her tenderness and devotion were redoubled. Never had there been
such a son in the history of the world. She relaxed her economies
in order to buy him little delicacies, such as sardines and
pickles; and when soon after his enlistment his uniform came home
she spread it on her bed and cried, and then sank on her knees,
passionately kissing the coarse serge. In the limitation of her
horizon she could see but a single figure. It was Georgie's
country, Georgie's President, Georgie's fleet, Georgie's righteous
quarrel in the cause of stifled freedom. To her, it was Georgie's
war with Spain.
He was drafted aboard the Dixie, where, within a week of his
joining, he was promoted to be one of the four quartermasters. So
much older than the majority of his comrades, quick, alert,
obedient, and responsible, he was naturally amongst the first
chosen for what are called leading seamen. Never was a man more in
his element than George Raymond. He shook down into naval life
like one born to it. The sea was in his blood, and his translation
from the auditor's department to the deck of a fighting ship
seemed to him like one of those happy dreams when one pinches
himself to try and confirm the impossible.
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