“No.
I haven’t any authority to do that, anyway.
But just as individuals, mind.
You mustn’t use my name at all.”
Then Grimm gave him a shot on his own account.
“I am not likely to do that,” he said.
Then he was gone.
That was Saturday, about four o’clock.
For the rest of that afternoon he circulated about the stores and offices where the legion members worked, so that by nightfall he had enough of them also worked up to his own pitch to compose a fair platoon.
He was indefatigable, restrained yet forceful; there was something about him irresistible and prophetlike.
Yet the recruits were with the commander in one thing: the official designation of the legion must be kept out of it—whereupon and without deliberate intent, he had gained his original end: he was now in command.
He got them all together just before suppertime and divided them into squads and appointed officers and a staff; the younger ones, the ones who had not gone to France, taking proper fire by now.
He addressed them, briefly, coldly: “... order ... course of justice ... let the people see that we have worn the uniform of the United States ...
And one thing more.” For the moment now he had descended to familiarity: the regimental commander who knows his men by their first names. “I’ll leave this to you fellows.
I’ll do what you say.
I thought it might be a good thing if I wear my uniform until this business is settled.
So they can see that “Uncle Sam is present in more than spirit.”
“But he’s not,” one said quickly, immediately; he was of the same cut as the commander, who by the way was not present. “This is not government trouble yet.
Kennedy might not like it.
This is Jefferson’s trouble, not Washington’s.”
“Make him like it,” Grimm said. “What does your legion stand for, if not for the protection of America and Americans?”
“No,” the other said. “I reckon we better not make a parade out of this.
We can do what we want without that.
Better.
Ain’t that right, boys?”
“All right,” Grimm said.
“I’ll do as you say.
But every man will want a pistol.
We’ll have a small arms’ inspection here in one hour.
Every man will report here.”
“What’s Kennedy going to say about pistols?” one said.
“I’ll see to that,” Grimm said. “Report here in one hour exactly, with side arms.”
He dismissed them.
He crossed the quiet square to the sheriff’s office.
The sheriff was at home, they told him.
“At home?” he repeated. “Now?
What’s he doing at home now?”
“Eating, I reckon.
A man as big as him has got to eat several times a day.”
“At home,” Grimm repeated.
He did not glare; it was again that cold and detached expression with which he had looked at the legion commander. “Eating,” he said.
He went out, already walking fast.
He recrossed the empty square, the quiet square empty of people peacefully at suppertables about that peaceful town and that peaceful country. He went to the sheriff’s home.
The sheriff said No at once.
“Fifteen or twenty folks milling around the square with pistols in their pants?
No, no.
That won’t do.
I can’t have that.
That won’t do.
You let me run this.” For a moment longer Grimm looked at the sheriff.