It did not take long for the news of Morosco’s contemplated resignation to filter through the rank and file of Company E. And every one assumed, as McCormack had done, that Brownell would go up, and that Barriscale would get a commission. There was no excitement concerning it, and little discussion. The second lieutenant was popular, and the enlisted men of the company were pleased with the contemplation of his prospective advancement. But Barriscale had not yet touched the popular heart, and, although no one criticized his qualities as a soldier or his efficiency as an orderly sergeant, at the same time no one became enthusiastic over the idea of his promotion. There was no outspoken opposition to his advancement among the men in the ranks; but one hanger-on of the company was not pleased with the outlook and did not hesitate to give expression to his thought. This was Chick Dalloway. He had never forgotten the night in the stack-room when both he and McCormack had suffered from young Barriscale’s abuse. He had not yet ceased to ridicule the elder Barriscale’s proposition to establish a fund for a prize, nor had he yet condoned the offense of which he believed the millionaire to be guilty in connection with Hal’s loss of his position at the bank. Moreover, his heart still burned with resentment whenever he thought of the indignity that had been placed upon his friend and mentor on the evening of Donatello’s ejectment from the armory.

It was, therefore, in no pleasant mood that on the night when the news of Morosco’s contemplated resignation first reached his ears, he walked down the street toward the place he called his home.

It was after drill; he had been at the armory; and ahead of him was a group of a half-dozen members of the company dressed in uniform, going in the same direction with him. They appeared to be in high spirits, they were talking and laughing freely, and, as they marched along, they began to sing one of the war songs made popular by the British troops on the western front.

For some reason, which he did not stop to dissect, their gayety seemed to jar on Chick’s particular mood, and he decided to change his course at the next corner, and lengthen his journey home by the distance of a block.

But, as he turned eastward, he discovered, lying in front of him on the pavement, in the full light of the electric street lamp, what appeared to be a letter. He picked it up and examined it. It was an unsealed and unstamped envelope, bearing on its face only the word “Miss.” Evidently the writer had been interrupted in his task of addressing the letter, and had laid it aside, intending to add other words later; or else, having got that far toward identifying the intended recipient of the missive, he had, for some unknown reason, changed his mind. The one preliminary word, however, was in a man’s hand, and the envelope was not empty.

When Chick had made out what it was that he had picked up, it occurred to him that one of the singing boys ahead of him might have dropped it. He hurried to catch up with them, and called, but, in their exuberance of jollity, they failed to hear him.

It was not until he was almost in touch with them that his voice reached their ears.

“Say,” he cried, “did any of you fellows drop anything?”

They suspended their musical efforts for the moment, stopped and faced him.

“Did we what?” asked one of them.

“Drop anything? let anything fall? lose anything out o’ your pockets?”

“What are you giving us, Chick? Is this one of your practical jokes?”

“Honest to goodness, no!” declared Chick. “I thought one o’ you might ’a’ dropped something; say like a—a pocketbook, or something like that.”

“Have we, boys? Has any one lost a pocketbook?”

The speaker faced his companions, each one of whom made immediate search of his pockets. Then, practically in unison, they declared that nothing of the kind had been lost.

“Why?” asked another one in the group. “Have you found a pocketbook?”

“No,” replied Chick truthfully, “I ain’t.”

“Then what in Sam Hill are you holding us up for, and scrapping the finest music that ever came from human throats?”

“Oh,” replied Chick, “I just wanted to know, that’s all. If they ain’t none o’ you lost nothin’, w’y then o’ course I ain’t found it.”

“Boys,” said a third one of the company, “are we going to stand for a thing like this? This levity at our expense must cease. He’s a Hun. What shall we do with him?”

“Give him the g. b. in a blanket on the armory lawn next drill night. All in favor say aye!”

There was a chorus of ayes.

“Forward, march! Hip! hip! hip!”

The ranks were reformed and the fun-loving young fellows marched on.

Chick smiled. He knew that these boys were fond of him, and would sooner have suffered torture than have done him any harm. But he congratulated himself on his diplomacy. He knew that if he had told them that it was a letter he had found they would have insisted upon seeing it, perhaps upon reading it, since the envelope was unsealed. And some deep sense of chivalry warned the boy that a letter addressed to “Miss,” whoever she might be, was not intended for the public eye.

But what should he, himself, do with it? He drew it from the pocket in which, by way of precaution, he had placed it, and again examined the brief superscription. He noticed now, also, that the envelope was soiled and marked by the trampling of feet. Evidently some one had dropped it on the pavement before the boys had come along, and they, not seeing it, had trodden on it. He looked up and down the quiet street, but no one was in sight save the disappearing group of young men in khaki who had already resumed their singing. It was obvious that he could not stand there and ask occasional passers-by if any one of them had lost a letter. It was just as obvious that it would be useless to carry it to the post-office, the police station or the drug store, and worse than useless to throw it back into the street. There was really but one reasonable thing to do with it, for the present at any rate, and that was to take it home with him. So he took it home. In the privacy of his little attic room, by the dim light of a small, smoky, oil lamp, he examined it once more. It occurred to him that by looking at the contents of the letter the name of the person to whom it belonged would be disclosed. So he slipped the folded sheet out of the envelope, but he still hesitated to read what was written there. It seemed to him that he was intruding upon some one’s privacy, and, notwithstanding his lack of training and his crude environment, Chick was at heart a gentleman. He studied over the matter for many minutes before he finally decided that the purpose he had in view justified the apparent intrusion into some one’s personal affairs. But when he had once cleared his mind of doubt he hesitated no longer. He unfolded the sheet and slowly and with difficulty, for he was no scholar, he picked out the words and sentences.

The letter was as follows:

Well, it was a love-letter; a real, genuine love-letter. Chick had never seen one before. He had only heard of them and wondered about them. And, being a love-letter, it was, of course, a thousand times more important that he should keep secret the contents, than though it had been a mere business letter. But who was Rachael to whom the letter had been written? and, more especially, who was Alfred, who had written it? He was a corporal in Company E. That fact, of course, went a long way toward his identification, but it was not sufficient to make the identification complete. There were five corporals in Company E, and if any one of them bore the name of Alfred, Chick did not know it.

It had become very plain to him, however, that he must find the person who had written this letter, and deliver it up to him. That would be simply a gentleman’s duty. In the meantime the missive would be secreted in an inner pocket of his waistcoat where no human eye would have an opportunity to gaze on it.

Before he turned out his light and got into bed Chick formulated his plan of action.

The next day he called at the office of Captain Murray.

“Do you happen to have,” he asked him, “any list of the co’porals in Company E?”

“Not here, Chick,” was the reply. “My roster is at the armory. I can tell who they are, though.”

“First names an’ all?”

“Hardly that. I only know them by their last names. Why?”

“Oh, I just kind o’ thought I’d like to know; that’s all. I—I might want to ask one of ’em for a job.”

“I see. Well, you go to Orderly Sergeant Barriscale. He’ll have a list and he’ll give you their full names.”

“No, I wouldn’t ask him. I don’t want to be under no obligation to him. I’ll find out some way.”

And Chick did find out. It was a slow and laborious process. But by consulting the city directory, by asking personal friends of the corporals, by many a roundabout way, he was in possession, before nightfall, of the desired information.

And then he ran up against another difficulty. There were two Alfreds in the list; both of them young, unmarried fellows, liable to have sweethearts. He decided to take the bull by the horns and interview each of them in turn. He found Alfred Griffin at his place of employment, a big wholesale house in the lower end of the city. He was shipping clerk there. His coat was off, his sleeves were rolled up, and he was busy as a bee checking up half a roomful of barrels, boxes and bales ready to be sent out to customers.

As Chick made his way across the room between piles of merchandise, Griffin saw him coming and greeted him cheerily.

“Hello, Chick!” he said. “What’s the best word to-day?”

“The word o’ hope,” replied Chick. “You feelin’ perty good to-day, yourself?”

“Fine!”

“Ain’t disappointed about nothin’?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

Chick didn’t answer the question. He looked around cautiously to make sure that no one else was within hearing, then he asked suddenly:

“Say, do you know a girl by the name o’ Rachael?”

“Do I know a girl by the name of Rachael?”

“That’s what I ast you.”

“Sure I do! Look here, boy, what have you got up your sleeve?”

“Nothin’ much. Did you ever love any other girl as much as you love her?”

Alfred Griffin flung his checking book down on top of a barrel and stared at Chick in utter astonishment.

“Well, for the love of Pete!” he exclaimed. “What is it to you whether I love her at all or not?”

Chick was not in the least disconcerted at this outburst.

“Oh, it ain’t much to me,” he answered coolly. “I jest thought I’d inquire whether you ever ast her to marry you.”

This was too much for Alfred bearing the surname of Griffin. He burst into a hearty laugh.

“Chick,” he said when he caught his breath, “you’re the limit. I haven’t the ghost of an idea what you’re driving at; but let me tell you, confidentially, that I think you’ve got the wrong pig by the ear. The fellow you want to investigate is Corporal Fred Lewis. He’s got a girl by the name of Rachael, and I know her. And any day he wants to yield up his claim on her, whatever it is, I’ll be glad to drop into his shoes. Do you get me? Now, is that what you want to know?”

“W’y, I heard one o’ you fellows had a girl by the name o’ Rachael, and I didn’t know which one it was.”

“Well, what did you want to know for?”

“I’ll tell you. You see, I’m lookin’ for a job. Not a stiddy all day job, you un’erstand; jest pickin’ up around mornin’s. An’ I didn’t know but what her folks might want such a man. And ef they did, I might git a recommend from whichever one o’ you fellows is sparkin’ the girl. See?”

Alfred, surnamed Griffin, looked at him for a moment quizzically.

“Chick,” he said at last, “you’re the most wonderful prevaricator that has happened since the days of Ananias. I don’t know why you’re lying to me like that; I only know you are. Now you go and hunt up Fred Lewis if you want to, and you pull this stuff on him, and see what you get. But don’t tell him I told you about Rachael. My life wouldn’t be worth a penny whistle if you did. He’s mighty sensitive about that girl.”

Chick was grinning broadly. He did not resent the charge made against him. He knew that his accuser was in the best of humor. He had the information he wanted, and he turned to go.

“All right!” he said. “Much obleeged to you. No hard feelin’s. I’ll do as much for you some time. Fred Lewis works down to the Barriscale, don’t he?”

“Yes; you’ll find him there in the assembling department. He’s got a good job. If he wants to marry Rachael he can afford to.”

“Sure! I won’t tell him you said so, though. He can’t pick nothin’ out o’ me.”

“That’s the talk! Good luck to you! Go to it!”

He waved his hand gayly as the boy clumped out of the wareroom.

Chick went on down the street toward the Barriscale plant, but he did not enter it. It was within a quarter of an hour of quitting time anyway; so he hung around in the neighborhood until the men came out, hundreds of them, and, separating into groups, entered the four streets that converged upon the plaza fronting the mills. His quick eye detected young Lewis in the crowd, in company with a fellow employee, and, walking a few rods in the rear, he trailed along after them.

It was not until half a dozen or more blocks had been covered that the two young men separated, and the one whom Chick sought went on alone. He walked rapidly and it was no light task for the boy with the physical handicap to overtake him. But he did overtake him eventually, and, half out of breath, shuffled along beside him.

The young man, seeing who his companion was, made no show, either of pleasure or displeasure. He looked anxious and worried, as though his mind was absorbed in the thought of some impending misfortune.

“Oh, is that you, Chick?” he said quietly. “Going my way?”

“Yes, for a block or two,” wheezed the boy. “Thought you might like to have company.”

“Sure! Come along! Am I walking a little too fast for you?”

“Oh, I guess I can keep up all right.”

But the young man slowed down in his gait, nevertheless, and made it easier for the boy to keep alongside.

For a little while after that neither of them spoke, Chick because he had not yet recovered sufficient breath, and Lewis because he was not in the mood for talking.

It was Chick who at last broke the silence.

“Lemme see!” said he, “your name’s Alfred, ain’t it? They call you Fred; but your right name’s Alfred, ain’t it?”

“Yes. Why?”

The young man seemed to evince little curiosity, and to ask the question more as a matter of form than because of a desire to seek information.

“Oh, nothin’ much,” replied Chick. “Only, if you was, now, writin’ a letter, say to a girl, you’d sign your name Alfred, I s’pose?”

Young Lewis awakened out of his apparent lethargy and glanced down curiously at the boy who was, with some effort, keeping up with him.

“Why, I suppose so,” he said. “What do you want to know for?”

Chick did not reply to the question, but, after a habit he had, he asked another one instead.

“And if you was writin’ to any girl, you’d most likely be writin’ to a girl name o’ Rachael, I s’pose?”

The young fellow stopped suddenly, faced sharply toward the boy, and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Look here, Chick!” he exclaimed; “have you found anything?”

“Me? Found anything?” repeated Chick, in apparent surprise.

“Yes; a letter, or anything like that?”

“Why, have you lost one?”

“Chick! Don’t keep me in suspense! If you’ve found my letter, tell me. I’ve worried myself pretty nearly into my grave over it, already.”

“I ast you, have you lost a letter?” Chick was very resolute and determined.

“Yes,” was the equally resolute reply, “I’ve lost one. Have you found it?”

They were standing on a quiet street corner, scarcely a block away from the Lewis home. One or two men passed by and spoke to them, but the greetings went unheeded.

“I’ve found a letter,” said Chick; “but how do I know whether it’s yourn or not? Who was it to?”

The young fellow swallowed awkwardly before replying, and grew red in the face. His first impulse was to resent the question as an unwarranted intrusion into his private affairs. But, on second thought, he knew that such an attitude on his part, especially toward Chick, would be extremely poor policy.

“Why,” he exclaimed finally, “it was to a girl by the name of Rachael, and it was signed ‘Alfred.’”

“That’s all right so far,” assented Chick. “But they’s lots o’ Rachaels in the U. S., and the world’s full of Alfreds. Tell me what was in it.”

“Oh, now, look here, Chick! That’s not necessary. Surely I’ve identified the letter sufficiently, and I’m entitled to have it.”

But Chick was obdurate. “No,” he said, “a man can’t be too careful about love-letters. If this here letter should git into the hands o’ the wrong party my goose would be cooked. You got to tell me what was in the letter ’fore I give it up.”

Alfred Lewis looked up the street, then down the street, and then at Chick.

“Well,” he said finally, “I asked Rachael to marry me.”

“That’s right!” assented the boy. “You sure did. Now, was they any p. s. on the end, or wasn’t they?”

“I believe there was.”

“What was in it?”

“Look here, Chick! Confound you! you’re getting too blamed inquisitive.”

But Chick straightened up as far as his deformed shoulders would permit, and thrust his hands determinedly into his pockets.

“I got to know,” he said.

There was apparently no escape, and the young lover, with scarlet face and stammering tongue, blurted out:

“Why, I told her I never loved any other girl as much as I did her. Does that satisfy you?”

Chick did not answer the question. Instead, he thrust one hand deeper into his pocket, drew forth the precious missive and handed it to the writer thereof, who, having glanced at it exteriorly and interiorly, gave a great sigh of relief. Then followed a shower of questions as to when, where and how the letter had been found, to all of which Chick not only gave complete and satisfactory answers, but he also entertained his listener with a full account of his own Sherlock Holmesian efforts in running down the writer.

At the conclusion of the narration young Lewis grasped the boy’s hand.

“Chick,” he declared, “you’ve saved my life. What if the other fellows had got onto it! They’d have made the town too hot to hold me. That job was worth money, Chick; yes, it was worth money.”

He thrust his hand into his pocket as he spoke, drew forth a purse, extracted therefrom a bill with a green back, and held it out to the boy. But Chick waved aside the gift disdainfully.

“No,” he said, “you can’t pay me nothin’. That was jest a friendly job. But some day, when I git to be a member o’ the comp’ny, I might want a favor; see? Then I’ll ast you.”

The owner of the restored love-letter again grasped the boy’s hand.

“Chick,” he said warmly, “whenever you want any favor that I can do for you, no matter what it is, you come to me and tell me, and I’ll do it if it takes a leg! Do you understand?”

“I un’erstand.”