BOTH Hiram Sill and Frank Sacobie completed the cadet course and passed the final examinations. After one last fling at Washington and one more astounding suggestion to the War Office, Mr. Sill went back to France and his battalion and took command of a platoon. Mr. Sacobie transferred, with his new rank, to the Royal Flying Corps and immediately began another course of instruction. His brother officers decided that he was of a family of Italian origin. He did not bother his head about what they thought and applied himself with fervor to mastering the science of flying.

Dick recovered his strength steadily. He saw Davenport frequently and the Kingstons still more frequently. His friendship with the Kingstons—particularly with Kathleen—deepened without a check. No two days ever went by consecutively without his seeing one or another of that family—usually one.

On a certain Tuesday morning near the end of November he left the hospital at ten o'clock in high spirits. He had that morning discarded his last crutch and now moved along with the help of two big sticks. The dressing on his head was reduced to one thin strip of linen bound smoothly round just above the line of his eyebrows. It showed beneath his cap and gave him somewhat the air of a cheerful brigand. Though his left foot came into contact with the pavement very gingerly, he twirled one of the heavy sticks airily every now and again.

Dick found Jack Davenport in the library. A woman and two little girls were leaving the library as he entered. The woman was poorly dressed, and her eyelids were red from recent tears—but now a look of relief, almost of joy, shone in her eyes. She turned on the threshold.

"Bill will have more heart now, sir, for the fighting of his troubles and miseries over there," she said. "If I were to stand and talk an hour, sir, I couldn't tell you what's in my heart—but I say again, God bless you for your great kindness!"

She turned again then and passed Dick, and the butler opened the big door and bowed her out of the house with an air of cheery good will.

Capt. Starkley-Davenport sat with his crutch and stick leaning against the table. On the cloth within easy reach his check book lay open before him. He was dressed with his usual completeness of detail and studied simplicity.

"Have you been boarded yet?" asked Jack.

"To-morrow," replied Dick. "All the M. O.'s are friends of mine, so I expect to wangle back to my battalion in two weeks."

Jack smiled and shook his head. "Your best friend in the world—or the maddest doctor in the army—wouldn't send you back to France on one leg, old son. Six weeks is nearer the mark."

"I can make it in two. You watch me."

"And is it still your old battalion, Dick? I have refrained from worrying you about it this time, because you deserved a rest—but I'm keener than ever to see you in my old outfit; and your third pip is there for you to put up on the very day of your transfer."

"I've been thinking about it, Jack—and of course I'd like to do it because you want me to. But the colonel wouldn't understand. No one who does not know you would understand. People would think I'd done it for the step, or that I hadn't hit it off, as an officer, with the old crowd. I want to stay, and yet I want to go. I want to fight on, as far as my luck will take me, with the 26th, and yet I'd be proud as a brigadier to sport three pips with your lot. As for doing something that you want me to do—why, to be quite frank with you, there isn't another man in the world I'd sooner please than you. Give me a few months more in which to decide. Give me until my next leave from France."

Dick had become embarrassed toward the end of his speech, and now he looked at Davenport with a red face. The other returned the glance with a flush on his thin cheeks.

"Bless you, Dick," he said and looked away. "Your next leave from France," he continued. "Six or seven months from now, with luck. They don't give me much more than that." Dick stared at his friend.

"I had to send for an M. O. early this morning," Jack went on in a level voice. "Wilson did it; he heard me fussing about. By seven o'clock there were three of the wisest looking me over—all three familiar with my case ever since I got out of hospital. They can't do anything, for everything that could be removed—German metal—was dug out long ago. A few odds and ends remain, here and there—and one or another of those is bound to get me within ten or twelve months. So it will read in the Times as 'Died of wounds,' after all."

Dick's face turned white. "Are you joking?" he asked.

"Not I, old son," said the captain, smiling. "I have a sense of humor—but it doesn't run quite to that."

"And here you are all dolled up in white spats! Jack, you have a giant's heart! And worrying about me and your regiment! Jack, I'll do it! I'll transfer. I'll put in my application to-day."

"No. I like your suggestion better. Wait till your next leave from France. I have taken a fancy to that idea. You'll come home in six or seven months, and you'll ask me to let you put off your decision until you return again. Of course I shall have to say yes—and, since I am determined to see the Essex badges on you, I'll wait another six or seven months. I am stubborn. Between your indecision and my stubbornness, the chances are that I'll fool the doctors. That would be a joke, if you like!"

Dick hobbled round the table and grasped Jack's hand.

"Done!" he exclaimed. "I am with you, Jack. We'll play that game for all it is worth. But you didn't seriously believe what the doctors said, did you?"

"Yes, until five minutes ago."

"Two years ago they said you would be right as wheat in six months; and now they say you will be dead in a year. If they think they're prophets—they are clean off their job. Would they bet money on it? I don't think! One year! Fifty years would have sounded almost as knowing and a good sight more likely."

Dick stayed to luncheon, and he remained at the table after Wilson had taken Jack away to lie down. Wilson came back within fifteen minutes and found the Canadian subaltern where he had left him.

"Sir, I am anxious about Capt. Jack," he said.

"Why do you say that?" asked Dick.

"Sir Peter Bayle and two other medical gentlemen of the highest standing warned him this very morning, sir, that he was only one year more for this world; and now he is singing, sir,—a thing he has not done in months,—and a song which runs, sir, with your permission, 'All the boys and girls I chance to meet say, Who's that coming down the street? Why, it's Milly; she's a daisy'—and so on, sir. I fear his wounds have affected his mind, sir."

"Wilson, I know that song and approve of it," said Dick. "If Sir Peter Bayle told you, in November, 1916, that you were to die in November, 1917, of wounds received in 1914, should you worry? Nix to that! You would seriously suspect that Sir Peter had his diagnosis of your case mixed up in his high-priced noddle with Buchan's History of the War; and if you are the man I think you are, you, too, would sing."

"I thank you, Mr. Richard. You fill my heart with courage, sir," said Wilson.

Dick reached the Kingston house at four o'clock and was shown as usual into the drawing-room. The ladies were not there, but an officer whom Dick had never seen before stood on the hearthrug with his back to the fire. He wore the crown and star of a lieutenant colonel on his shoulders, a wound stripe on his left sleeve, the red tabs of the general staff on his collar, on his right breast the blue ribbon of the Royal Humane Society's medal and on his left breast the ribbons of the D. S. O., of the Queen's and the King's South African medals, of several Indian medals and of the Legion of Honor. His figure was slight and of little more than the medium height. A monocle without a cord shone in his right eye, and his air was amiable and alert. Dick halted on his two sticks and said, "I beg your pardon, sir."

The other flashed a smile, advanced quickly and in two motions put Dick into a deep chair and took possession of the sticks. Then he shook the visitor's hand heartily.

"Glad to see you," he said. "There is no mistaking you. You are Kathleen's Canadian subaltern. I am Kathleen's father."

Dick knew that there were plenty of suitable things to say in reply, but for the life of him he could not think of one of them. So he said nothing, but returned the colonel's smile.

"Don't be bashful, Dick," continued the other. "I was a boy myself not so long ago as you think—but I hadn't seen a shot fired in anger when I was your age. It's amazing. I wonder what weight of metal has gone over your head, not to mention what has hit you and fallen short. Tons and tons, I suppose. It's an astounding war, to my mind. Don't you find it so?"

"Yes, sir," replied Dick.

"And you are right," continued the other. "I wish I were your age, so as to see it more clearly. Stupendous!"

At that moment Mrs. Kingston and the two girls entered. It had been Dick's and Kathleen's intention to go out to tea; but the colonel upset that plan by saying that he was very anxious to hear Dick talk. So they remained at home for tea—and the colonel did all the talking. Dick agreed with everything he said about the war, however, and then he said that Dick was right—so it really made no difference after all which of them actually said the things.

During the ten days of the colonel's leave he and Dick became firm friends. They knocked about town together every morning, often lunched with Jack Davenport and every afternoon and evening took Mrs. Kingston and the girls out. Dick dined at home with the family on the colonel's last night of leave. After dinner, when the others left the table, the colonel detained Dick with a wink.

"I won't keep you from Kathleen ten minutes, my boy," he said. "I want to tell you, in case I don't see you again for a long time,—meetings between soldiers are uncertain things, Dick,—that this little affair between you and my daughter has done me good to see. You are both babies, so don't take it too seriously. Take it happily. Whatever may happen in the future, you two children will have something very beautiful and romantic and innocent to look back at in this war. Though you should live to be ninety and marry a girl from Assiniboia, yet you will always remember this old town with pleasure. If, on the other hand, you should continue in your present vein—that is, continue to feel like this after you grow up—that it is absolutely necessary to your happiness to have tea with my daughter every day—well, good luck to you! I can't say more than that, my boy. But in the meantime, be happy."

Then he shook Dick vigorously by the hand, patted his shoulder and pushed him out of the room.

Dick handled the medical officers so ably that he and his transportation were ready for France on New Year's Day. The Kingstons saw him off. He found a seat in a first-class compartment and deposited his haversack in it. Then the four stood on the platform and tried in vain to think of something to say. Even Mrs. Kingston was silent. Officers of all ranks of every branch of the service, with their friends and relatives, crowded the long platform. Late arrivals bundled in and out of the carriages, looking for unclaimed seats. Guards looked at their big silver watches and requested the gentlemen to take their seats. Then Mrs. Kingston kissed Dick; then Mary kissed him; and then, lifted to a state of recklessness, he kissed Kathleen on her trembling lips. He saw tears quivering in her eyes.

"When I come back—next leave—will it be the same?" he asked.

She bowed her head, and the tears spilled over and glistened on her cheeks. Standing in the doorway of the compartment, Dick saluted, then turned, trod on the toes of a sapper major, moved heavily from there to the spurred boots of an artillery colonel and sat down violently and blindly on his lumpy haversack. The five other occupants of the compartment glanced from Dick to the group on the platform.

"We all know it's a rotten war, old son," said the gunner colonel and, stooping, rubbed the toes of his outraged boots with his gloves.

Dick found many old faces replaced by new in the battalion. Enemy snipers, shell fire, sickness and promotion had been at work. Dick acted as assistant adjutant for a couple of weeks and was then posted to a company as second in command and promised his step in rank at the earliest opportunity. In the same company was Lieut. Hiram Sill's platoon. Hiram, busy as ever, had distinguished himself several times since his return and was in a fair way to be recommended for a Military Cross.

The commander of the company was a middle-aged, amiable person who had been worked so hard during the past year that he had nothing left to carry on with except courage. At sight of Dick he rejoiced, for Dick had a big reputation. He took off his boots and belt, retired to his blankets and told his batman to wake him when the war was over. The relief was too much for him; it had come too late. The more he rested the worse he felt, and at last the medical officer sent him out on a stretcher. Fever and a general breakdown held him at the base for several weeks, and then he was shipped to Blighty. So Dick got a company and his third star, and no one begrudged him the one or the other.

The Canadian Corps worked all winter in preparation for its great spring task. The Germans fortified and intrenched and mightily garrisoned along all the great ridge of Vimy, harassed the preparing legions with shells and bombs and looked contemptuously out and down upon us from their strong vantage points. Others had failed to wrest Vimy from them. But night and day the Canadians went on with their preparations.

Word that the United States of America had declared war on Germany reached the toilers before Vimy on April 7; and within the week there came a night of gunfire that rocked the earth and tore the air. With morning the gunfire ceased, only to break forth again in lesser volume as the jumping barrages were laid along the ridge; and then, in a storm of wind and snow, the battalions went over on a five-division front, company after company, wave after wave, riflemen, bombers and Lewis gunners. The Canadians were striking after their winter of drudgery.

One of our men, a Yankee by birth, went over that morning with a miniature Stars and Stripes tied to his bayonet. We cleared out the Huns and took the ridge; and for days the water that filled the shell holes and mine craters over that ground was red with Canadian blood, and the plank roads were slippery with it from the passing of our wounded.

Dick went through that fight in front of his company and came out of it speechless with exhaustion, but unhit. Hiram Sill survived it with his arm in a sling. Maj. Henry Starkley was wounded again, again not seriously. Maj. Patrick Hammond was killed, and Corp. Jim Hammond was carried back the next day with a torn scalp and a crushed knee.

On the tenth day after that battle Lieut. Hiram Sill and his company commander were the recipients of extraordinary news. Mr. Sill was requested to visit the colonel without loss of time. He turned up within the minute and saluted with his left hand.

"You are wanted back in the U. S. A., Hiram, for instructional purposes," said the colonel, looking over a mess of papers at his elbow. "You don't have to go if you don't want to. Here it is—and to be made out in triplicate, of course."

Hiram examined the papers.

"And here is something else that will interest you," continued the colonel. "News for you and Dick Starkley. You have your M. C."

Hiram's eyes shone.

"And Dick seems to have hooked the same for his work on the Somme—and I had given up all hope of that coming through. I recommended him for a D. S. O. last week. The way these recommendations for awards are handled beats me. They put them all into a hat and then chuck the hat out of the window, I guess, and whatever recommendations are picked up in the street and returned through the post are approved and acted upon. I know a chap—come back here!"

Hiram turned at the door of the hut.

"Do you intend to accept that job?"

"Yes, sir."

"You have a choice between going over to the American army with your rank or simply being seconded from the Canadians for that duty. What do you mean to do?"

"Seconded, sir. I am an American citizen clear through, colonel, but I have worn this cut of uniform too long to change it in this war."

Hiram found Dick in his billet, reading a letter. Dick received the news of the awards and of Hiram's appointment very quietly.

"Jack Davenport has gone west," he said.

Hiram sat down and stared at Dick without a word.

"This letter is from Kathleen," continued Dick. "She says Jack went out on Monday to visit some of the people he helps. He had taken on six more widows and seven more babies since the Vimy show. On his way home toward evening he and Wilson were outside the Blackfriars underground station, looking for a taxi, when a lorry took a skid fair at an old woman and little boy who were just making the curb. Wilson swears that Jack jumped from the curb as if there were nothing wrong with him, landed fair in front of the lorry, knocked the old woman and kid out from under, but fell before he could get clear himself."

"Killed?"

"Instantly."

Hiram gazed down at his muddy boots, and Dick continued to regard the letter in his hand.

"Can you beat it?" said Hiram at last.

Dick got up and paced about the little room, busy with his thoughts. Finally he spoke.

"Sacobie is flying, and you are booked for the States, and I am going to transfer to Jack's old lot," he said slowly.

Hiram looked up at him, but did not speak.

"Jack wanted me to," continued Dick. "Well, why not? It's the same old army and the same old war. A fellow should make an effort to oblige a man like Jack—dead or alive." He was silent for several seconds, then went on: "Henry has been offered a staff job in London. Peter is safe. Sacobie has brought down four Boche machines already. What have you heard about Jim Hammond?"

"It's Blighty for him—and then Canada. He'll never in the world bend that leg again."

For a while Dick continued to pace back and forth across the muddy floor in silence.

"We are scattering, Old Psychology," he said. "This war is a great scatterer—but there are some things it can't touch. You'll be homesick at your new job, Hiram,—and I'll be homesick with the Essex bunch, I suppose,—but there are some things that make it all seem worth the rotten misery of it." He glanced down at Kathleen's letter, then put it into his pocket. "Jack Davenport, for one," he ended.

"A soldier and a gentlemen," said Hiram.

THE END