knew beyond peradventure that he was not being allowed to live it in any way but miserably.
Having the heart of a runaway, it was not difficult for the Reverend Mr. Eaton to think with the mind of one, and by two o'clock in the morning he had pretty well decided what course he himself would have undertaken if he had been actually instead of imaginatively wearing his runaway son's shoes.
Seven o'clock found the Reverend Mr. Eaton stamping his cold feet in front of the recruiting station which was just outside the gates of the Brooklyn Navy Yard. At eight o'clock the recruiting station opened for the day, and the Reverend Mr. Eaton went in. He stated his business to the recruiting officer and helped this hard-boiled seafarer to establish a fire in a little sheet-iron stove. Thereafter he sat on a wooden bench and waited. He had not long to wait. For the very first applicant to appear in the recruiting station on that cold December morning was John Eaton himself.
"Hello, John," said his father.
"Hello, father," said John.
"Had breakfast?"
"Yes, sir."
"So have I."
John was uncertain what he should do or say
