That was a strange group that marched, three abreast, up the main street of Fairweather that Sunday morning of the riot. Sergeant Barriscale, with a rifle on each shoulder; on his right Corporal Manning, hatless, with bandaged head; and on his left, shuffling weakly along, General Chick.

“McCormack is going to get some glory out of this day,” said Manning.

“He deserves it,” responded Barriscale, sharply.

And Chick added: “I ain’t never seen nothin’ to beat it. Wasn’t that great?”

Then, again, for a few minutes, they walked on in silence, save as they were met and questioned by curious and excited people hurrying toward the plaza.

Sarah Halpert came speeding down the street in her car. When she saw the strange trio she ordered her driver to draw up to the curb.

“Tell me all about it, Ben!” she exclaimed. “Did you get hurt, Dick? What’s the matter with you, Chick? Where’s Hal? Is he in command of the company?”

“Yes, to everything, Miss Halpert,” replied Ben. “Dick got smashed on the head with a brickbat, Chick isn’t feeling very well, and I’m disgraced. We’re all going back to the armory.”

“But Hal? What’s he doing?”

“He’s driving the rioters out of town at the point of the bayonet, Miss Halpert. He’s covering himself with glory.”

“Splendid!” She half rose in her seat, and clapped her hands together vigorously. Apparently she forgot all about Manning’s wound, and Chick’s illness, and Ben’s disgrace, for she turned quickly to her driver, and ordered him to make haste ahead.

“I want to catch up with the company,” she said. “I want to see Hal doing it.”

And the next minute she was out of sight.

When the three men started on again Manning’s footsteps were a little more uncertain, and Chick dragged himself a little more wearily than before.

In the middle of the next block Barriscale became suddenly aware that the boy was missing from his side. He looked back and saw him lying in a heap on the walk. He dropped his rifles and went and bent over him. Chick was white and insensible but he was breathing.

“Poor fellow!” said Manning, “the thing’s been too much for him. What’s to be done?”

Barriscale did not reply, but, looking up, he caught sight of a passing car. It was empty save for the driver, and he hailed it and commandeered it for his use. When it drew up to the curb he helped to lift Chick into it, and he and Manning got in beside him.

“Drive to the City Hospital,” he ordered, “and break the speed law if you want to.”

When they drew up under the porte-cochÈre at the hospital, two orderlies came, lifted out the still unconscious boy, carried him in, and started with him down the corridor.

“Where are you taking him?” asked Ben.

“To the men’s ward,” was the reply. “I suppose he’s one of the rioters you’ve picked up.”

“Rioter!” Ben gazed at the orderly so fiercely that the young fellow almost lost his grip on the boy’s shoulders. “Rioter nothing! He’s General Chick. He’s a friend of mine. No men’s ward for him! He’s to have a private room, a special nurse, and the best the hospital affords.” He turned to the superintendent who had now come up. “I wish you’d send the house surgeon to him at once. Give him everything he needs. As soon as I can get in touch with Dr. Norton I’ll have him come up and look after him. Send all bills to me.”

“Very well, Mr. Barriscale. We’ll do our best for him.”

The orderlies were already wheeling Chick to the elevator to take him up-stairs.

Barriscale turned to Manning.

“Now, Corporal,” he said, “you can take me to the guard-house.”

“No,” replied Manning, “I think I’ll let you go by yourself. Now that I’m here I believe I’ll stay and have this wound fixed up with a permanent dressing. Besides, I want to see Captain Murray and tell him what happened this morning.”

“That’s right! He’ll be glad to hear. Tell him the first lieutenant played the soldier to perfection. Tell him the boys were heroes. And tell him”—he hesitated a moment and then blurted it out: “that he’s got a first sergeant who’s a natural born fool, a disgrace to his company, and a blot on the National Guard.”

Without waiting to hear the corporal’s protest he turned on his heel, strode down the hall, entered the waiting car, and directed that he be driven at once to the armory.

At nine o’clock that morning Company E returned from its skirmish with the mob. A belated squad of state constabulary had arrived and taken charge of the situation, and there was no longer any occasion for the Guardsmen to remain on duty. They marched up the main street, sturdy, dusty and triumphant, followed by an admiring and applauding crowd. And there was good reason for both admiration and applause. By reason of the patience of the Guardsmen under great provocation, and of their prompt obedience to orders, and by reason of the coolness, judgment and skill of their commanding officer, Fairweather had undoubtedly been saved from a disastrous and bloody experience. The citizens knew this and they did not hesitate to say so.

At the armory, after the first lieutenant had turned the company over to Sergeant Bangs for dismissal, he beckoned to Barriscale who, without rifle or equipment, was standing at the side-wall, and the disgraced officer stepped forward and saluted.

“You are suspended,” said Lieutenant McCormack to him, “from the performance of any military duties, until your case can be taken up by the proper authorities. In the meantime you are relieved from arrest and may proceed about your ordinary business.”

Sergeant Barriscale, as became a soldier, said nothing in reply. He saluted again and retired.

On the Tuesday following the riot the court martial reconvened to proceed with the case against Lieutenant McCormack. The Barriscales were not present, nor were any of their witnesses. Their counsel, however, arose and said that in view of certain developments since the last sitting of the court his clients did not care to prosecute the case further. It would not have mattered much if they had so cared. The verdict of the court was a foregone conclusion. The conduct of the defendant on the preceding Sunday morning had served as a complete refutation of the charges against him. Without the loss of a single life, or the destruction of any valuable property, a riotous and bloodthirsty mob had been quelled and dispersed. It was conceded that this was due to the admirable way in which Lieutenant McCormack had handled the situation. Moreover, the national emblem had been protected against a rash and violent attack, and its would-be despoiler had been summarily dealt with as he deserved to be. This was the dramatic episode that made the young lieutenant’s vindication sure, and capped the climax of his popularity.

So, on the application of Brownell, the court dismissed the charges without hearing any witnesses for the defense, and, so far as could be discovered, the defendant himself was the only person in the community who was dissatisfied with the outcome of the trial. He knew that if the charges were not true in letter they were at least true in spirit, and that his own conduct had formed a sufficient foundation for them. He knew also that it was only by the narrowest sort of a margin that he had escaped being an ingrate to his country and a traitor to his flag. That he should now come off scot free, and in a blaze of glory besides, was deeply offensive to his sense of proportion, of propriety, and of justice. But there was nothing that he could do without the risk of bringing on further complications and disasters, save to accept the ruling of the court and the verdict of the community, and to shape his life accordingly.

With the rout of the mob that Sunday morning the backbone of the strike at the Barriscale mills, and at other industrial plants in Fairweather, was broken. Smoke again belched forth freely from the tall stacks, the roar and clatter of machinery fell heavily on the air, laboring humanity swarmed once more through the ways and byways of the shops. Workmen were no longer heckled and abused on their way to and from their homes. Many adherents of the radical labor organizations, finding themselves on the losing side, dropped their open affiliation with their destructive bodies, abandoned, for the time being at least, their anarchistic principles, and returned to work on conditions already accepted by union labor. Not that the backbone of anarchy had been broken in Fairweather. Far from it. There were still those who, cowed for the time being, were sullen and woeful, and awaited only an opportune time to exhibit openly and forcibly their resentment. Marie Brussiloff, from her cot in the hospital, and Gabriel from his headquarters in the near-by city, still suffering from their wounds, were “breathing out threatenings and slaughter.” Donatello alone, of all the group, in the columns of The Disinherited, was mild and conciliatory. He appeared to be grieved rather than outraged, disappointed rather than angered. Meeting McCormack a few days after the riot, he exhibited no bitterness nor resentment but he told him that in his judgment he had missed the opportunity of a lifetime to do a splendid service for humanity.

“I feel,” was Hal’s reply, “that I am doing a far greater service for humanity by upholding the laws of my country than I could possibly do by letting a mob work its will.”

“But those laws,” protested Donatello; “you know by whom they were made.”

“I know; I have gone all over that phase of the matter a thousand times. But it’s democracy; and, so far, democracy has proved to be the best form of government that any peoples of the earth have ever lived under. I tell you, Donatello,” he was growing eager and emphatic now, “when Gabriel tried to cut down my flag that morning, a sudden reverence for the ‘Stars and Stripes’ took hold of me, and I would have dared anything to protect them. I am just as much of a humanitarian as I ever was. I am just as much in sympathy with the toiling masses of the world as ever. But since that moment I have felt that my first duty is to protect my own. I believe I am not lacking in a sense of chivalry, but my mother and my sisters are my first concern above all other women in the world. Just so my own country must come first in my loyalty and devotion.”

And never, after that, could any argument or appeal shake Halpert McCormack’s conception of patriotism.

It was four days after the riot. Captain Murray was still at the hospital, recovering but slowly from the shock and severity of his wounds. There was no longer any doubt that his condition was the result of a deliberate attempt to cripple the efficiency of the local militia company on the eve of the proposed invasion of Fairweather. His assailants were being held in the county jail without bail to await the result of his injuries.

In the same hospital lay also General Chick. He was desperately ill. The powers of disease had fastened upon his crippled and weakened body with terrible avidity. It could not be denied that his grief and anxiety over the anticipated fate of his beloved lieutenant had not only hastened his illness but was mainly responsible for the ferocity of the attack. Repeated and positive assurances had not been sufficient to free his mind of the harassing belief that he, as an unwilling witness, was to be the chief cause of the officer’s downfall.

It was on the morning of this fourth day that Miss Anderson, the trained nurse who was caring for Chick, went into Captain Murray’s room, as she had been requested to do, to make her daily report concerning the boy’s condition.

“He is no better,” she said. “Of course we do not expect that he will be any better. But if we could only get his mind relieved as to Lieutenant McCormack’s fate—you know that is what he worries about mostly—I am sure he would have less temperature, and be much more comfortable.”

Captain Murray started to raise himself on his elbow, but fell back with a gasp of pain.

“Why!” he exclaimed, “hasn’t he heard yet? Doesn’t he know about McCormack?”

“He knows nothing new about him.”

“Well, you tell him that yesterday the court martial handed down a decree dismissing the charges. Tell him that McCormack has been acquitted; that he is free. Do you understand? Tell him that the court-martial is all over, and that McCormack is free; absolutely free!”

When the nurse came in to make her afternoon report she had scarcely crossed the door-sill before Captain Murray called out to her:

“Did you tell him, Miss Anderson?”

“Yes, I told him.”

“Did he understand? What did he say?”

“I think he understood. I never before saw such a rapturous look on a human face. He—he lay very quiet for—a while. Then he said——”

Hardened as she was to pathetic sights and sounds, the lips of the tender-hearted nurse trembled, her voice failed her, and, with tears rolling down her cheeks, she turned and fled from the captain’s room.

But McCormack had still to deal with the case of Barriscale. He knew that it was his duty to file charges with Captain Murray against the first sergeant, and he knew what those charges should be. “Behaving himself with disrespect toward his commanding officer, in violation of the 20th Article of War.” “Disobeying a lawful command of his superior officer, in violation of the 21st Article of War.” It was simple enough; his duty was plain. Yet, day after day went by and he took no action. He, himself, had been too near the verge of disloyalty and insubordination to make the task of preparing and presenting charges against a comrade an easy one.

But, when Captain Murray’s improvement made it no longer possible to put forth the serious nature of his illness as a pretext for not disturbing him, McCormack went down to the hospital one day, determined to take the matter up and have an end of it.

“I hope,” said the captain, “that you’ve brought with you the charges against Barriscale. It’s high time something was done.”

“No,” was the reply. “I haven’t drawn any charges. I’ve decided not to present any.”

In his surprise Captain Murray thrust himself up on his elbow, but he only winced now at the pain it gave him.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “Don’t you know that the man is guilty?”

“Perhaps he is. But I believe he was more than half justified in what he did. As I think of it now, my only wonder is that any man in the company had any confidence in me, or was willing to follow me or obey my orders.”

The captain looked his first lieutenant in the eyes and was silent. Evidently he was impressed with what McCormack had said. For when he spoke again his manner was mild and he exhibited little impatience.

“But, if you don’t court-martial him what will you do with him?” he asked. “It’ll never do to let such a breach of discipline go unnoticed.”

“I propose to turn him over to you for admonition under the Army Regulations.”

“And what shall I do with him?”

“The most you could do in that case; the most you could do if you were sitting as a summary court, would be to send him back to the ranks.”

“Then I’ll send him back to the ranks.”

“In my judgment that would be too severe a punishment.”

Up to this moment, save at the beginning of the conversation, Captain Murray had repressed his impatience with admirable self-control. But now it again got the better of him.

“Too severe!” he exclaimed. “Why, man! do you know that such an offense as his, in the regular army, in time of war, would be punishable with death?”

“I know. But we’re not in the regular army, and we’re not at war.”

“If I had my way about it,” was the captain’s reply, “we would be both in the federal service and at war. That slaughter on the other side will never stop until this nation goes in and stops it. The sooner we get about it the better.”

“I agree with you. But, as to Ben, I hope you will be lenient.”

“And I promise you that I will punish him to the full extent of my authority.”

The captain was resolute, so Hal had to let it go that way.

When he left the officer’s room he went up to the next floor to see Chick. The boy gazed at him with unrecognizing eyes. Whether he saw him at all or not is quite uncertain. But his shriveled and colorless lips were incessantly moving.

“He babbles night and day,” said Miss Anderson, “mostly about Company E and his duties at the armory. He boasts that he is now a regular member of the company. He says you got him in. You are his hero, Lieutenant McCormack. He never tired of talking about you when his mind was clear. Even now yours is the name most frequently on his lips.”

“Poor fellow!” replied Hal. “I am glad he has the satisfaction of believing that he has been admitted to membership in the company. It was almost his lifelong ambition to be a Guardsman.”

“Well, he is one now to all intents and purposes. He says he must make haste to get well in order that he may return to his duties. His great fear and concern seem to be that the soldiers will go across the sea to fight, and that on account of his illness he will be left behind. If he were to believe that such a thing had happened it would absolutely break his heart.”

Hal looked down on the gray face and unseeing eyes.

“It will never happen,” he said.

When he heard the sound of his own name issue feebly from the murmuring lips he bent his head to listen.

“Yes, he got me in,” said the boy. “These are my khakis. That’s my gun. I drill; I march—I’ll go with ’em across the sea—an’ fight. Yes, that’s my flag; the ‘red, white an’ blue.’” He paused for a moment and then continued: “Was that taps? Well, I’m ready—I’m tired.”

He turned his head on the pillow as if to go to rest. Hal took the unresponsive hand and pressed it gently, gazed, for a moment, with wet eyes, into the pinched, pathetic face, and came away.