Perhaps, after all, Fanchon Bareaud had described it best when she told Crailey one day, with a sudden hint of apprehensive tears, that he had a "look of fate." Tom took his own time in coming; he had stayed at the club to go over his lists--so he had told Crailey--with the General and old Bareaud.
His company was almost complete, and Crailey had been the first to volunteer, to the dumfounding of Trumble, who had proceeded to drink his health again and again.

But the lists could not detain Tom two hours, Crailey knew, and it was two hours since the new volunteers had sung "The Star Spangled Banner" over the last of the punch, and had left the club to Tom and the two old men.

Only once or twice in that time had Crailey shifted his position, or altered the direction of his set gaze at nothing.

But at last he rose, went to the window and, leaning far out, looked down the street toward the little clubhouse.

Its lights were extinguished and all was dark up and down the street.