Three days after Lieutenant McCormack’s interview with Captain Murray, First Sergeant Barriscale, in pursuance of notice duly received, presented himself before his commanding officer, in his room at the hospital, for admonition and punishment in accordance with the Army Regulations. There was no bravado in his bearing, no attempt at bluster or denial.

“I suppose I may as well plead guilty to the charges,” he said, “and take what’s coming to me.”

Captain Murray looked up at him in astonishment. What had become of the boastful, self-satisfied scion of a wealthy family as he had known him scarcely three weeks before? He had expected to deal with a stubborn, defiant, aggressive offender; but here came a modest, pliant, soldierly young fellow, freely acknowledging his offense, and willing to pay the penalty. It was a strange circumstance. It changed materially the aspect of affairs. It set the captain to thinking.

“But there are no charges,” he said at last. “McCormack refused to file any.”

“Refused—to file any?”

Barriscale looked up at him with incredulous eyes. He could not understand it. Why had not McCormack taken advantage of so rich an opportunity, so just an occasion, to even up a score that had been running lopsided for years?

“Yes. He doesn’t want you court-martialed. I’m not particularly eager for it myself. We’ve had enough of court-martialing in Company E for the present. So I decided to call you before me instead for admonition and punishment under the Army Regulations.”

“But, Captain, mine was a court-martial offense, not a case for a summary court. I’m not asking for any clemency. I’m guilty, and I’m ready to take my medicine.”

“And I mean to give it to you. But I don’t quite understand your attitude. I supposed you’d put up a fight. What’s come over you?”

“I don’t know, Captain Murray. I experienced a sort of change of heart that Sunday morning. I looked around me, and realized what McCormack had done; that our plant was saved, that the flag was still flying, that the mob had been dispersed, and that through it all I had been neither a patriot, a soldier nor a gentleman; but simply an unmitigated fool. I think that was the end of one phase of my life, and the beginning of another. Now I want to start right, and starting right means adequate punishment for misdeeds.”

“I see. That’s splendid! That’s the right way to look at it. I congratulate you!” The captain’s hand moved across the counterpane, found Ben’s, grasped it and held fast to it. “But there’ll be no court-martial. That’s settled. And as for the punishment, I had thought to reduce you to the ranks. It’s the most I could do, anyway. But, in your present state of mind, I—I think I’d rather have you on the right of the line. So I’ll just order you back to your post.”

Barriscale sprang to his feet, his cheeks glowing and his eyes wide with apprehension. Again it was the old fire of impetuosity that broke out in him.

“I protest!” he exclaimed. “That wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be fair to McCormack, nor just to the boys in the company. If I were to obey such an order I’d do it at the loss of every vestige of self-respect. Captain, don’t do that, I beg of you! At least reduce me to the ranks.”

Captain Murray, looking searchingly into his first sergeant’s face, saw that he was both sincere and determined.

“Very well,” he said; “back to the ranks you go.”

As Barriscale turned to leave the captain’s room Miss Anderson entered it. Her eyes were solemn but tearless, as befits the eyes of those who have just witnessed the passing of a soul.

“General Chick,” she said, “is dead.”

He had died in the full belief that the great ambition of his life had been fulfilled, that he was a soldier of the Guard, and that, in the embarkation for the great war, he had not been left behind. And so his death came joyfully. He had, indeed, gone “across the sea,” not to fight under any earthly flag, but to march and sing forever under the stainless banner of the Lord of Hosts.

In August following the annual July encampment the regiment to which Company E belonged was mobilized at Mount Gretna, along with other National Guard units, was mustered into the federal service, and, in October, was sent to the Mexican border. It went into camp at Camp Stewart, seven miles north of El Paso, and remained there during the entire winter. The regiment saw no active service; it was not even called upon to patrol the border.

Not that the men did not have their experiences, their pleasures and their hardships. But, what with the daily drill, the camp entertainments, the trips to the city, and the letters and parcels from home, life on the sand plains of the Rio Grande valley did not become especially monotonous. The troops would have preferred to march and fight; they would have been delighted to be with Pershing’s regulars in the heart of Mexico, but there was little murmuring and there were few complaints. They were soldiers in the service of the federal government; they were being well cared for, it was their business to obey orders and be content.

This was especially true of the men of Company E. They spent no time nor wasted any breath in useless murmuring. They performed their duties as soldiers with skill and alacrity. Theirs became the crack company in the regiment. Lieutenant McCormack, their commander, had not only their respect but their affection. From the day of the riot his place in their minds and hearts was fixed and unalterable. As for Barriscale, the old prejudice against him had worn gradually away until he had become in fact as well as in theory a comrade. As a private in the ranks he performed every duty with painstaking care and fidelity. The old sense of self-importance had disappeared; he was simply Private Barriscale, in the service of his country, no better nor worse than the men who surrounded him. As Brownell put it one day, he had become “really human.”

The breach between him and McCormack had, apparently, not yet been fully closed. It is certain that there was no familiar companionship between them. Barriscale had made formal apology to the first lieutenant, his apology had been accepted and his offense kindly minimized, and there the matter had ended. They were soldiers and gentlemen in their relations with each other, that was all. Whether a bit of the old resentment still dwelt in the heart of each of them, or whether it was a natural diffidence and hesitancy that prevented them from approaching one another on what was of necessity a delicate subject, perhaps neither of them could have told.

But an incident happened one day that in its consequences brought about a change in the relations between the two men.

Plodding back from the city of El Paso to camp in the afternoon of a December day, Barriscale was caught in one of the violent sandstorms characteristic of that region. Swept, buffeted, blinded, drenched with the terrific downpour of rain, he reached the camp battered, breathless and exhausted. After three days of partial disability he developed a full case of pneumonia. The disease was not of the most severe type, however, and at no time was he considered to be desperately or even critically ill.

But Lieutenant McCormack, the company commander, deemed it advisable to telegraph to Barriscale’s father the fact of his son’s illness.

This he did on the third day after the nature of the disease had become definitely established.

The telegram was an assuring one, but it brought Benjamin Barriscale, Sr., to Camp Stewart within thirty-six hours after its receipt. He found his son much improved, the crisis safely passed, and the young man on the sure road to recovery. He remained with him three days.

It was on the afternoon of the second day, as he was sitting at the side of Ben’s cot which had been partitioned off by screens from the rest of the hospital ward, that the subject of their relations with Lieutenant Halpert McCormack came up.

“I’ve nothing against him now,” said Ben. “I’ve seen him day in and day out for months, and in my opinion he’s a soldier and a gentleman.”

The elder Barriscale sat for a moment in silence.

“I may have been rather harsh in my judgment of him before the riot,” he said at last. “But I still think that his opinions and conduct justify my attitude toward him up to that time.”

“That may be very true, father; but you’ll have to admit that he handled the situation that day in a masterly manner.”

“Yes, I’ll admit that.”

“And that his patience and judgment and firmness not only saved our property from destruction, but prevented much bloodshed and probably a city-wide disaster.”

“I guess that’s true too.”

“Then why haven’t we got the moral courage to acknowledge it, and tell him so, and put an end to this awkward restraint, and this uncomfortable attitude on the part of all of us?”

Again the elder man hesitated.

“He may still be a radical,” he replied; “and I don’t care to humble myself before a person of that type. When this ultra-socialist germ once finds lodgment in a young man’s mind, it’s no easy task to displace it.”

“Well, I guess he’s got rid of it all right now.” The invalid raised himself on his elbow and added earnestly: “You know I believe McCormack’s one ambition to-day is to serve his country faithfully as a soldier.”

“That’s a laudable ambition, I’m sure.”

It was at this juncture that Lieutenant McCormack, having come to the hospital to visit the two or three of his men who were invalids there, was ushered by a nurse into the little apartment screened off for Barriscale. When he saw that the sick man had company he would have withdrawn, but Ben called to him.

“Come in,” he said. “Father’s here, and he wants to see you.”

So McCormack came in; not wholly at ease, to be sure, but with the dignified and courteous bearing of a soldier. The elder Barriscale reached out a friendly hand to him and he took it, and then passed around to the other side of the cot.

“Ben is right,” said the elder man. “I did want to see you, and I should not have left camp without having done so. I want to thank you for having notified me of my son’s illness.”

“That is a duty,” replied the lieutenant, “which we owe to the parents of our men when they are seriously ill. And I think your son has been seriously, though not dangerously, ill.”

“Yes; I have talked with the surgeon, who thinks his escape from something far worse than this was extremely fortunate.”

“And I am extremely glad,” added the lieutenant, “that he is so well on the road to recovery, and will soon be back with us. We all appreciate him and need him. He is an ideal soldier.”

The words came unconsciously, almost impetuously. If McCormack had stopped to consider he might not have uttered them. Still he made no attempt to modify them, for he knew that they were true.

But the heart of the father had been touched; and if any feeling of prejudice or resentment against his son’s one time rival had remained with him prior to his journey south, it vanished in this moment. Blunt and direct in meeting opposition to his will, he was equally blunt and direct in acknowledging his faults or mistakes, or expressing his gratitude or approval.

“I want to thank you, sir,” he said, “for your generosity. Your conduct toward my son since the day of the riot has been more than magnanimous.”

“You are very kind to think so and to say so,” replied the lieutenant modestly.

“And I want to say further,” went on the manufacturer, “that while there was a time when I doubted your true Americanism, that time has passed. Your conduct as an officer has proved your worth as a patriot. You have lived up to the best traditions of the American soldier. I admire your judgment, sir, and your patience and skill, and broad-mindedness, and——”

What more Benjamin Barriscale, Sr., would have said had not a peculiar choking sensation checked his speech, cannot be definitely known. It is certain that his eyes were moist and his lips trembled. His enthusiasm and his surroundings had betrayed him into an emotion such as he had not experienced in years. And as for his son, two big tears escaping from his eyes were coursing down his cheeks unheeded and undisturbed.

Lieutenant Halpert McCormack did not quite know what to say. He began to stumble over some awkward expression of appreciation and thanks, but the elder Barriscale cut him short.

“There,” he said, “the incident is closed. I want to go up and see the boys of your company, and take home any messages they want to send. And if there’s anything they need while they’re down here, they shall have it if it’s in my power to get it to them.”

When Hal rose to go Ben reached out his hand to him.

“There’s not much left,” he said, “for me to say, except to assure you, with all the heart and energy I’ve got, that my father’s sentiments are mine.”

And in that moment the old breach between them was closed forever.

On the day that Private Ben Barriscale left the hospital, a committee representing the enlisted men of Company E called on First Lieutenant McCormack at company headquarters. There were three sergeants and two corporals. The lieutenant received them graciously but wonderingly, and waited for them to declare their errand. Manning, although only a corporal, appeared to be the spokesman of the committee. He saluted gravely and drew from his pocket a formidable looking paper.

“Lieutenant McCormack,” he said, “we are not sure whether or not we are violating military rules and customs in appearing before you to make a certain request, but we feel that our earnestness and good faith will, in any event, be our sufficient excuse. I hand you a petition, signed by every enlisted man in Company E but one, and as the matter concerns him he was not asked to sign it.”

He handed the paper to McCormack, returned to his place and stood at attention.

The company commander, with not a little misgiving, unfolded the paper and began to read it. It ran as follows:

McCormack ran his eyes down the long list of names, then folded the paper and looked into the faces of his visitors.

“Are you aware,” he said, “that when Private Barriscale was returned to the ranks he lost his grading, and, in accordance with military usage, should begin again at the lowest round of the ladder to win promotions?”

“We are aware of that,” was Manning’s reply; “but we feel that the circumstances surrounding Barriscale’s case warrant the waiving of this custom. He has taken his punishment like a soldier. He has made himself agreeable and helpful to his comrades. He is absolutely faithful in the performance of every duty. It seems to us that he has paid in full the penalty for his old offense.”

The company commander did not seem to be greatly interested in this plea, but he turned to Acting First Sergeant Bangs, who stood at the left of the group.

“Are you willing,” he asked, “to waive such right of appointment to the first sergeantcy, as you may have by reason of your present position?”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” was the prompt and earnest reply; “I am not only willing, but glad to do it. In my judgment Private Barriscale has easily won the honor which we are asking for him.”

Still the company commander did not seem to be deeply impressed with the sergeant’s plea.

He asked, of no member of the committee in particular:

“Does Barriscale know anything about this?”

Manning and Boyle replied with one accord, in the same words:

“Not a word!” And Manning added: “We have not taken him into our confidence for fear he might disapprove and put a stop to it.”

Again Lieutenant McCormack looked into the faces of his visitors for a moment without speaking. Then he said quietly:

“I do not think that, under the circumstances, you have been guilty of any breach of military etiquette. I will accept your petition, consider it, and consult with my lieutenants concerning it.”

They saluted him, he returned the salute, and then they turned on their heels and left the commander’s tent.

Three days later orders were posted announcing the appointment of Private Benjamin Barriscale to the office of First Sergeant.

Late in March Company E came home from the border.

As the boys marched up from the station, stalwart, bronzed, with ringing steps and beaming faces, the citizenry of Fairweather lined the curbs and hung from the windows to greet and acclaim them. As they went by, Sarah Halpert, standing in her automobile, surrounded by the McCormack family, waved her handkerchief, and shouted her enthusiastic welcome. She had reason to be both proud and happy. For her old wish had been fulfilled; Halpert McCormack was captain of Company E, and Benjamin Barriscale was its first lieutenant. Captain Murray had resigned his commission, and the new appointments had come down through headquarters three days before the entrainment of the troops for home.

“Haven’t I told you times without number,” exclaimed Sarah Halpert, “that the boy had the stuff in him? All that was needed to bring it out was a Sabbath morning, and a howling mob, and a threat against Old Glory.”