His consent was gained for the publication of the story of his people,
but it was with the pronounced stipulation that "it be told right."
Weeks afterward--for I had gone to live awhile among his people--the two
of us were sitting upon the rugged rock, facing to the cliff above the
York spring, talking about the fight in France.
He told of it hesitatingly, modestly. Some of the parts was simply the
confirmation of assembled data; much of it, denial of published rumor
and conjecture--before the story came out as a whole.
I asked the meaning of his statement that he would not "mind the
publication if the story were done right."
"Well," he said with his mountain drawl, "I don't want you bearing down
too much on that killing part. Tell it without so much of that!"
A rock was picked up and hurled down the mountain.
I then understood why the little mother was "jes' a-waiting till Alvin
gits ready to talk." I understood why the son did not wish to be the one
to bring into his mother's mind the picture of that hour in France when
men were falling before his gun. I saw the reason he had for always
courteously avoiding talking of the scene with anyone.
"But," and he turned with that smile that wins him friends, "I just
can't help chuckling at that German major. I sure had him bluffed."
According to the code of mountain conversation there followed a silence.
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