He had only been away upon a little expedition, a mere matter of digging for buried treasure.
We had found the treasure, part of it a chipmunk's skull and a broken arrow-head, and R.H.D.had been absent from his mother for nearly two hours and a half.
I set about this article with the knowledge that I must fail to give more than a few hints of what he was like.

There isn't much more space at my command, and there were so many sides to him that to touch upon them all would fill a volume.

There were the patriotism and the Americanism, as much a part of him as the marrow of his bones, and from which sprang all those brilliant headlong letters to the newspapers; those trenchant assaults upon evil-doers in public office, those quixotic efforts to redress wrongs, and those simple and dexterous exposures of this and that, from an absolutely unexpected point of view.
He was a quickener of the public conscience.

That people are beginning to think tolerantly of preparedness, that a nation which at one time looked yellow as a dandelion is beginning to turn Red, White, and Blue is owing in some measure to him.
R.H.D.thought that war was unspeakably terrible.

He thought that peace at the price which our country has been forced to pay for it was infinitely worse.