For a man ordinarily absorbed in his own command, Colonel Stanley Armstrong had become, all on a sudden, deeply engrossed in that of Colonel Canker. The Frosts had been gone a week, via Vancouver—the expedition only about sixteen hours—when he appeared at Gordon’s tent and frankly asked to be told all that tall Southerner knew of the young soldier Morton, now gone from camp for the third, and, as Armstrong believed, the last time. “Why, that young fella’s a bawn gentleman,” drawled Gordon, as he offered the colonel a chair and cigar. “He was behavin’ tip top, steady as you please until about a month ago. He’s only been with us since the first of May—came with a big batch of recruits—a regular athlete, you know. Then after he’d drilled awhile I nailed him for headquarters clerk. I never knew him to be off an hour until “I wish I had known about him earlier—before the Primes came,” said Armstrong thoughtfully, knocking the ashes off his cigar. “Of course you divine my theory?” “That Morton’s the missing son and heir? Of course. Now that I’ve seen Miss Prime the family resemblance is strong. But if he wanted to soldier, what’s to prevent. Those tents yawnduh are full of youngsters better educated than I am,” and Gordon arose, tangling a long, lean leg in the nearest campstool, which he promptly kicked through the doorway into the sailing fog outside. It was barely eleven o’clock, but already the raw, wet wind was “Yawnduh comes the Prime carriage now, by George,” continued the adjutant, as he limped to the entrance. “Ole man seems all broke up, don’t he?” Armstrong had promptly risen and came striding to his comrade’s side. “Naturally,” was the answer. “He had hoped much from this visit. The boy was just under twenty-one when he enlisted, and, as his father’s consent was lacking, a discharge could have been ordered. It may have been fear of that that drove the youngster off. Where is the carriage—and your glass?” continued the colonel, looking about until he found a binocular. “Comin’ right down the road back of the officers’ tents. Reckon it’s another visit of condolence to Gray. You know I shouldn’t wonduh if this arrest of his proved a blessin’ in disguise for that lucky boy.” No reply coming to this observation, Gordon “I—I was sayin’ this arrest may be, after all, the biggest kind of blessing in disguise for that lucky Billy. Yes, by Jove! They’re comin’ to his tent. That’s a splendid girl, ole man!” “Miss—Prime, you mean?” calmly queried Armstrong, striking match after match in the effort to light a fresh cigar, his face averted. “Miss Prime I don’t mean,” answered Gordon, glancing curiously at the senior officer. “Not but that she’s a most charming young lady and all that,” he hurriedly interpolated, Southern chivalry asserting itself. Then with a twitch about the lip: “By the way, ole man, those cigars light better from the other end. Take a fresh one.” Armstrong quickly withdrew the ill-used weed from between his strong, white teeth, gave it one glance, and a toss into the waste-basket. “No, I’ve smoked enough. But how can “Huh! Chief made him take it off directly he heard of it,” grinned Gordon. “Moses! But didn’t Squeers blaspheme!” And the adjutant threw his head back and laughed joyously over the retrospect. “Yes, there’s that curly pate of Billy’s at the tent door now. Reckon he was expectin’ ’em. There they are, ole Prime, too. Don’t be in a hurry, colonel.” They had known each other years, these two, and it had been “Armstrong” and “Gordon” when they addressed each other, or “ole man” when Gordon lapsed into the semi-affectionate. To the adjutant’s Southern sense of military propriety “ole man” was still possible. “Armstrong” would be a soldierly solecism. “I am to see the General before noon,” said Armstrong gravely, “and it’s time I started. If you should hear of your runaway let me know. If you shouldn’t, keep our views to yourself. There’s no use in rousing false hopes.” With that Armstrong turned up the collar of his overcoat and lunged out into the mist. Gordon watched him as he strode away, the orderly following at the conventional distance. The shortest way to general headquarters was up the row of company officers’ tents in front of the still incarcerated Billy; the longest was around back of the mess tent and kitchen. Armstrong took the latter. That escape of prisoners was still the talk of camp. Men had come by battalions to see the tunnel, observing which Canker promptly ordered it closed up. Opinion was universal that Canker should have released the officers and men he had placed under arrest at once, but he didn’t. In his bottled wrath he hung on to them until the brigade commander took a hand and ordered it. Canker grumblingly obeyed so far as the sergeant and sentries were concerned, but entered stout protest as to Gray. “I still hold that officer as having knowledge of the scheme and aiding and abetting. I can prove that he telephoned for that carriage,” he said. “At least there’s nothing to warrant the posting of that sentry at Mr. Gray’s tent, Colonel But Canker’s knuckles came in for another rasping within the hour. The brigadier being done with him, the division commander’s compliments came over per orderly, and would the colonel please step to the General’s tent. Canker was fuming to get to town. He was possessed with insane desire to follow up that boarding house clue. He believed the landlady could be bullied into telling where her boarder was taken, and what manner of man (or woman) he was. But down he had to go, three blocks of camp, to where the tents of division headquarters were pitched, and there sat the veteran commander, suave and placid as ever. “Ah, colonel, touching that matter of the robbery of your commissary stores. Suspicion points very strongly to your Sergeant Foley. “Why—General,” said Canker, “I’ve known that man fifteen years—in fact, I got him ordered to duty here,” and the colonel bristled. “Well—pardon me, colonel, but you heard the evidence against him last night, or at least heard of it. Don’t you consider that conclusive?” Canker cleared his throat and considered as suggested. “I heard the allegation sir, but—he made so clear an explanation to me, at least—and besides, General”—a bright idea occurring to him—“you know that as commissary sergeant he is not under my command——” “Tut, tut, colonel,” interrupted the General, waxing impatient. “The storehouse adjoins your camp. Your sentries guard it. Captain Hanford, the commissary, says he called on you last night to notify you that he had placed the sergeant under arrest, but considered the case so grave that he asked that a sentry be placed over him, and it wasn’t done.” “I dislike very much to inflict such indignity on deserving soldiers, General,” said Canker, stumbling into a self-made trap. “Until their guilt is established they are innocent under the law.” “Apparently you apply a different rule in case of officers,” calmly responded the General, “vide Mr. Gray. No further words are necessary. Oblige me by having that sentry posted at once. Good-morning, sir.” But to Canker’s dismay the officer of the guard made prompt report. The sentry was sent, but the sergeant’s tent was empty. The colonel’s pet had flown. This meant more trouble for the colonel. Meantime Stanley Armstrong had hied him to General Drayton’s headquarters. The office tents were well filled with clerks, orderlies, aides and other officers who had come in on business, but this meeting was by appointment, and after brief delay the camp commander excused himself to those present and ushered Armstrong into his own private tent, the scene of the merry festivities the evening of Mrs. “Well—what have you found?” “Enough to give me strong reason for believing that Morton, so-called, is young Prime, and that your nephew is with him, sir.” The old soldier’s sad eyes lighted with sudden hope. Yet, as he passed his hand wearily over his forehead, the look of doubt and uncertainty slowly returned. “It accounts for the letters reaching me here,” he said, “but—I’ve known that boy from babyhood, Armstrong, and a more intense nature I have never heard of. What he starts in to do he will carry out if it kills him.” And Drayton looked drearily about the tent as though in search of something, he didn’t quite know what. Then he settled back slowly into his favorite old chair. “Do sit down, Armstrong. I want to speak with you a moment.” Yet it was the colonel who was the first to break the silence. “May I ask if you have had time to look at any of the letters, sir?” “Do I look as though I had time to do any-thing?” said the chief, dropping his hands and uplifting a lined and haggard face, yet so refined. “Anything but work, work, morn, noon and night. The mass of detail one has to meet here is something appalling. It weighs on me like a nightmare, Armstrong. No, I was worn out the night after the package reached me. When next I sought it the letters were gone.” “How long was that, General?” Again the weary hands, with their long, tapering fingers, came up to the old soldier’s brow. He pondered a moment. “It must have been the next afternoon, I think, but I can’t be sure.” “And you had left them——?” “In the inside pocket of that old overcoat of mine, hanging there on the rear tent pole,” was the answer, as the General turned half-round in his chair and glanced wistfully, self-reproachfully thither. Armstrong arose, and going to the back of the tent, made close examination. The canvas “You went in town, as I remember, late that evening and called on the Primes and other people at the Palace. I think I saw you in the supper room. There was much merriment at your table. Mrs. Garrison seemed to be the life of the party. Now, you left your overcoat with the boy at the cloak stand?” “No, Armstrong, that’s the odd part of it. I Armstrong took the missive held out to him, and slowly read it, the General studying his face the while. The letter bore no clue as to the whereabouts of the writer. It read: “March 1st, ’98. “It is six weeks since I repaid all your loving kindness, brought shame and sorrow to you and ruin to myself, by deserting from West Point when my commission was but a few short months away. In an hour of intense misery, caused by a girl who had won my very soul, and whose words and letters made me believe she would become my wife the month of my graduation, and who, as I now believe, was then engaged to the man she married in January, I threw myself away. My one thought was to find her, and God knows what beyond. “It can never be undone. My career is ended, “Rollin.” Armstrong’s firm lips twitched under his mustache. The General, with moist eyes, had risen from his chair and mechanically held forth his hand. “Poor lad!” sighed Armstrong. “Of course—you know who the girl was?” “Oh, of course,” and Drayton shrugged his shoulders. “Well, we’ll have to go,” and led on to the misty light without. Over across the way were the headquarters tents of a big brigade, hopefully awaiting orders for Manila. To their left, separated by a narrow space, so crowded were the camps, “H’m!” said the General, as he gazed, “that youngster wouldn’t swap places with any subaltern in camp, even if he is under charges.” There was no answer from the strong soldier standing observant at his elbow. But when the chief would have moved Armstrong detained him. “One more question, General. In case you were away and wanted something you “H’m, well—yes, I suppose it would,” said the General. |