Read Online Once an Eagle by Anton Myrer - Free Book Online Page A

forefinger down his trousers, pinching hard at the knee to reinforce the crease. None of the passersby seemed to have noticed.
    His father’s gold watch said 2:14. Time was sliding along, slipping away, and he hadn’t done anything yet. He stood at a street corner, befuddled by the crush of traffic. Then on the other side he saw a policeman talking to a fat man in a straw boater. He timed the gap between a Pierce Arrow touring car and a produce wagon and sprinted across. The two men turned to him as he came up.
    â€œWell, young fellow,” the policeman said. “Where’d you learn to run like that?”
    â€œJust picked it up, I guess.”
    â€œYou want to watch out, with all this heavy traffic here.” The policeman’s eyes under the visor were the palest gray. “Where do you hail from?”
    â€œWalt Whitman, sir.”
    â€œAnd where is that?”
    â€œWell, it’s about fifteen miles from—” He saw they were having fun with him then, and broke off, grinning. “It’s the first time I’ve ever been to Lincoln.”
    â€œI’d never have guessed it.”
    â€œCan you tell me where Congressman Bullen’s office is?”
    â€œSure.” The officer pointed past his shoulder. “Back where you came from. See that building there? with the bright yellow border?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThat’s his office. Second floor. You’ll see the shingle.” The policeman’s gray eyes sparkled again. “Thinking of going into politics, are you?”
    â€œOh no, sir. I’m going to get me an appointment to West Point.”
    â€œI see.” Both men laughed, and the policeman waved him along with a little flourish and called: “All right. Good luck to you.”
    He found the place easily. There was a sign in shiny black stone with gold letters that said MATTHEW T. BULLEN, Attorney at Law. He climbed the stairs and encountered the legend again on the frosted panel of the door. He paused a few seconds in indecision; he could hear a typewriter clacking along, then the clear high ting of the bell and the muffled slam of the carriage. Mr. Thornton said you should never barge in anywhere. If in doubt, knock, then enter. Mr. Bullen was a busy man. He waited another moment, then gave a tug to his coattail, knocked twice lightly and opened the door and went in.
    It was an office all right, but Congressman Bullen wasn’t there. There was only a desk where a girl was typing and two oak filing cabinets and a long bench where a farmer was patiently sitting, his hat in his lap and a hand on each knee. The farmer gazed at him vacantly. The girl hadn’t even looked up when he’d entered. Confused, a little irritated, he walked up to the desk and stood there. After a few seconds she gave a muttered exclamation and flipped up the paper-lock bar. She glanced up at him; she had a narrow face and bulging brown eyes.
    â€œYes?” she said crossly.
    â€œI’d like to see Congressman Bullen.”
    â€œOn what business?”
    â€œIt’s about West Point.”
    â€œDo you have an appointment?”
    An appointment. That stopped him. He paused, said, “No—I don’t. I’m from near Kearney” (he would not make that mistake again). “I just got here a few minutes ago. On the train.”
    She threw him a glance of unbridled scorn and began to make the erasure. “Well. You’ll have to take a seat. Over there.”
    He frowned. He wanted to tell her he had to get the 3:47 back, that it was important he see Mr. Bullen as soon as possible; but he couldn’t think of any way to put it without making her really angry with him. Personal secretaries wielded a lot of power: you had to handle them with kid gloves. He’d heard drummers and businessmen at the hotel discussing the matter.
    Reluctantly he went over and sat down near the old farmer, who nodded and went on staring into