The next morning, after Stacey had bathed, he stood for a moment, reflecting, then again put on his uniform. In the midst of dressing he paused to look in the telephone directory for the name of the lieutenant whom he had especially liked in his first company and who, he remembered, lived in Omaha. He called up the number.

“Curtis Traile’s house? ... Oh, this Traile? Good! Stacey Carroll talking.”

He heard a joyful exclamation. “It is! What are you doing here? Where are you?”

Stacey told him.

“Then you—you saw all that mess last night?”

“Yes,” said Stacey drily. “Listen, Traile! Can I see you this morning? If you’ll tell me how to get to where you live I’ll—”

“You will not! I’ll be around at the hotel for you inside of twenty minutes.”

“All right. Thanks. You’ll find me in the dining-room. ’Bye!”

Stacey went down into the dining-room and ordered breakfast. Then he unfolded a newspaper. Outwardly he appeared as unmoved as ever. It was only when he came upon the one piece of news he cared about—“Mayor’s Condition Serious! Still Unconscious at Three This Morning! Doctors Hopeful!”—that a ripple of emotion passed over his face. He ate his breakfast calmly.

But on page four he happened upon a small item cursorily recorded which he read with interest.

“At twelve-thirty this morning after the termination of the riot Sergeant of Police Bassett, who was patrolling Seventeenth Street, heard groans issuing from the covered alley leading in behind the Boyd Theatre. On investigating he discovered that they came from a man lying in the alley in a semi-unconscious condition and apparently suffering from attempted strangulation. When able to speak he at first gave his name as John Smith and claimed to have been assaulted, at what time he could not say, by a man wearing U. S. Army uniform. Later he admitted he was Adolph Kraft of 1102 Chicago Street and withdrew his first story, declaring that he was attacked by an unknown man while endeavoring to restrain the rioters from further violence. He was taken to Ford Hospital, where his condition was said to be serious but not critical. The police attach little credence to either story told by Kraft, believing his injury to be the result of some personal vengeance carried out during the confusion of the riot. Kraft was formerly a bar-tender and so far as known has no present occupation. He has been twice convicted of petty offences.”

“So I didn’t kill him, after all,” thought Stacey. “Doesn’t appear that he’d have been much of a loss.” But he reflected dispassionately, merely as noting a fact, that in his assault he had shown the same overwhelming desire to kill that had possessed the mob. That the cause was different on his part did not matter a straw. His intense will to murder had been the same as theirs. Too bad! Not detached enough! Not detached enough! He should have slain the man coldly.

A cordial voice interrupted his meditations. “Well, Captain!—I say! You’re in uniform! You of all people! How come?”

“Hello, Traile,” said Stacey, looking up and shaking hands.

The lieutenant was young and had a fresh pleasant expression when, as now, he was smiling. When, as a moment later, his face grew sober again there was a certain gravity in it, as though a curtain had been dropped,—a hint of the same shadow that hung about Stacey. And this odd contrast in the young man’s face between buoyant youthfulness and weary knowledge impressed Stacey, since he had not seen Traile for many months, and was therefore now seeing him freshly.

“This is fine!” Traile continued swiftly. “But it was pretty rotten of you to be here so long and never let me know. Oh, I know all about it now, you see! Dropped around at Burnham’s on the way here.”

“How is he?”

“Fine! He told me about your coming and staying with him. Confound it! he might have let me know he was sick! But no! his wife had to go and wire you!” Traile concluded ruefully, pausing for breath. He sat down.

“Have some breakfast?”

“Thanks, no. I’ve eaten. Then you—you saw all that last night?”

Stacey nodded. “Have you read the estimable comment in the morning paper?” he asked. “Listen!—‘Whatever the provocation it does not warrant any band of men taking the law into their own hands unless they are prepared to face the judgment of their fellow citizens for such an act.’ Seems sufficiently moderate, don’t you think?”

Traile flushed. “Isn’t that damnable!” he blurted out boyishly. “You must think I live in a rotten town!”

“No,” said Stacey somberly, “I wish I did think so. If that were all there was to it we could band together cheerfully to blow up Omaha.”

“I tell you what, Captain!” Traile cried, his face stern. “We’re going after the leaders if we can get them—going after them hard! There are scores of names listed already; there’ll be twice as many by to-night. General Wood’s been ordered here. Arriving to-morrow morning. And meanwhile we’re organizing the Legion men.”

Stacey nodded. “I thought you would be. That’s what I particularly wanted to see you about. I’m not from here, of course, but I want you to let me in on it.”

Traile’s face radiated a sudden joyful surprise. “You, Captain?” he exclaimed.

“Why not?” asked Stacey coolly, lighting a cigarette.

“Well,” stammered the other, “I—of course we’ll take you in with a rush. You’re in uniform, too. How come?”

Stacey looked at him thoughtfully. “You needn’t be embarrassed, Traile,” he said. “You’re quite right. I don’t like army stuff and I don’t care a fig about helping maintain law and order in this pleasant world. But if,” he said, his eyes and voice hard, “I can do any fighting against a thousand beasts that tortured one lone individual, and especially that mauled and half killed the one man who stood up to them”—his teeth snapped together—“why, then, I’d like to; that’s all,” he concluded in his normal voice.

Traile stared at him for a moment in silence. “Come home with me,” he said, and rose.

“Sure!” remarked Stacey calmly. “Just give me time to sign my check.”

Traile’s car was outside. They entered it and drove swiftly off.

“Just to show you the way some of us feel about this,” the lieutenant remarked presently, “I’ll tell you that I’ve been ’phoning steadily ever since six-thirty this morning. That’s why you got me so promptly when you called up.”

“To our boys?”

Traile nodded.

“What results?”

The lieutenant frowned, gave the car a sudden exasperated burst of speed, then slowed down somewhat. “Unsatisfactory. Hang it, they won’t come! Only two of ’em, Mills and Jackson, who’re at my house now.”

“Did you really think they’d volunteer?”

“No,” said Traile shortly, “I didn’t. The ones who’ll jump at the job will be the sweet lads who drilled in safe camps and never so much as saw a transport.”

“Oh, well,” Stacey replied coolly, “that wasn’t their fault, and no more’s their point of view. You’re a funny cuss, Traile! Here you are, wanting men to show up, yet I’m blessed if you aren’t railing at the ones who do and praising your men because they don’t!”

“That’s right,” admitted the other, laughing sheepishly. “But then, aren’t we all that—funny cusses, I mean—we chaps who saw the real show?” he added meditatively. “Anyhow, will you try them, Captain? Maybe,” he concluded diffidently, “they’ll come for you.”

Stacey nodded. “I’ll try,” he assented. “How many enlisted men of C Company, your company, live here?”

“Twelve,” said Traile promptly.

“And how many of D Company—do you happen to know?”

“Ten. Here we are.”

They turned into a curved driveway leading up to a handsome residence. Traile hurried Stacey out of the car and down the hall of the house to the library.

“Here’s who I made you wait for, boys!” he cried. “You didn’t know—eh?”

The two men in the room sprang to salute, surprise and unmistakable pleasure in their faces.

Stacey felt a sudden touch of gratitude, that was like the warm trickle of a brook into an ice-bound lake. Yet he said little enough to the men in the way of greeting—only a word or two, and shook their hands. Then he plunged at once into business.

“Mills,” he said, “can you and Jackson corral all the men of your company and of D Company too, and get them around here to see me, without obligation to anything—say at noon sharp—that all right, Lieutenant?” Traile nodded.

“Yes, sir,” they replied in unison.

“All right. Let’s make out a list, Lieutenant.”

“Now what’s to do?” Traile remarked impatiently when the men had departed. He was walking nervously about the room.

“Do?” said Stacey. “Nothing,—unless you can give me a drink.”

“You bet I can!” the other cried boyishly, and pushed a bell in the wall. “Leagues and leagues of wine-cellar. Family away in Maine. Whole house to myself. Great! Come in, Blake. Scotch, please,—V.O.P.—and glasses and ice and all that sort of thing.” He flung himself down in a chair. “Funny! Ever since I got back I feel as though I had to be doing something all the time, and yet there isn’t a damned thing I really want to do. You feel that way at all, Captain?”

“Yes,” said Stacey, smoking moodily. “Now let’s see,” he added in a different tone. “Where do we stand? What’s the state of affairs in town?”

Traile sat up, alert again. “Two companies of troops from Fort Crook patrolling the city—couldn’t get here last night in time to do any good,” he added bitterly, “because permission had to be granted from Washington first.”

“I recognize the well-loved system.”

“Uh-huh. General Wood arriving to-morrow morning. No definite plan of action to be adopted till he gets here. Listing of names of suspects going on rapidly, however.”

Stacey nodded. “Do you think,” he asked meditatively, “that we’ll have a chance to be in on the arresting part of the game? That’s what I want. Patrolling streets is no use.”

“Sure I do! The colonel from the fort said as much. ’T’s just what they will use us of the Legion for, because we know the town. Here are our drinks. Now when we’ve drunk them what in hell shall we do? I know!” he cried triumphantly. “We’ll drive around to the hotel and bring your things over here, where they ought to have been all the time.”

Stacey smiled. “All right,” he assented. “I don’t care much for the night clerk at that hotel.”

At five minutes to twelve the library all at once overflowed with men. There was pride in Stacey’s look as he greeted them.

“How many, Mills?” he demanded, after a moment.

“Twenty out of twenty-two, sir. Burnham’s sick—as you know better’n any one else, Captain. Monahan, he—he couldn’t come.”

“He couldn’t?” Stacey’s voice was regretful. “That’s too bad.” He paused for a moment, reflecting. Then he drew himself up very straight and gazed at the men, looking keenly from one to another.

“Now look here, men,” he said. “You’re fed up on army stuff and so am I. You know as well as I do that I haven’t got a bit of authority over you. I can’t tell you to go and do anything you don’t want to do. But last night some things were done in this town that I happened to see. And one of them was that a brave man stood out in front of a mob of beasts and said ‘no’ to them. And what happened to him because he said ‘no,’ as any one of you would have said, was—oh, God damn it! you know what it was!”

Stacey’s face was white now, and his voice shook with anger.

“He was your mayor,” he continued after a moment, “but it isn’t that I care about. What I care about is that he was a man. You fought the Germans and no one knows better than I how you fought them. Well, there were men among the Germans, decent men, whatever we think about what they fought for. In this mob last night there weren’t any men—just beasts. And I ask you—just ask you, mind!—if you’ll turn in with Lieutenant Traile and me and go after them. That’s all,” he concluded, and shut his teeth with a snap.

There was an instant’s pause. Then: “I guess you know, Captain,” said one of the men awkwardly, “that we’ll all of us do whatever you say—and do it quick!” he added sharply.

“Thanks, Sergeant. Is that the way you all feel about it? ... Thanks again.”

“Now then,” he went on, in a brisker, matter-of-fact tone. “Lieutenant Traile tells me that we’ll be able to make arrests. Well, that’s what we want. I wouldn’t have called you across the block for the sake of patrolling streets. That’s a Boy Scout job. This is the way it’ll be, I suppose. Officers will get lists given them and go out with a patrol of men to get the animals listed. I don’t know how many men they’ll assign to each officer, but two will be enough. Now listen to me. I only want four of you to show up in uniform. Let’s see—er—Morgan and Isaacs for me, Mills and Jackson for Lieutenant Traile. The rest of you, all sixteen, keep out of uniform. Don’t show up at any Legion meeting. Report to me through Sergeant Peters and Corporals Petitvalle, Blaine and Swanson. You’re to find out where the men are whose names we’ll have given us. They won’t be at their homes, of course, most of them. Then the six of us in uniform will go get them. D’you see? Dirty work! Spies’ work! Informing!” He paused questioningly, but the laughter that greeted his warning was reassuring. “All right, then,” he said easily. “You won’t be very popular, of course, but who wants to be popular with skunks? That’s all for now. Nothing doing till General Wood arrives. The sergeant and the three corporals will come here at nine to-morrow morning—in civilian clothes, mind!—and await instructions. Morgan, Isaacs, Mills, and Jackson show up, in uniform, at the Legion meeting to-morrow after General Wood’s arrival.”

When the men had gone Traile looked at Stacey oddly. “Gee whiz, Captain!” he cried finally, “you’re stronger than ever on love for military discipline, aren’t you? Here you’ve gone and organized a civilian detective service right in the bosom of the army! Oh, cripey!” And he burst out laughing.

“Well,” said Stacey coolly, “what we want is to get those men, isn’t it?”

But Blake appeared at the door.

“Good!” Traile exclaimed. “Lunch is ready. We’ll go down. And this afternoon there’s a Legion meeting. I’ll take you over. Not for the joy of it, but just because I’ll have to present you to the officers—and to the colonel from Fort Crook. He’ll be there.”

The next morning, while the two men were at breakfast, Traile was called to the telephone. He returned after five minutes, his face radiant.

“’T’s all right,” he said. “Commander of Legion called me up. General got in two hours ago. Already conferred with governor, city commissioner, police department, everything else conferrable. Police department transferred to the colonel, commanding officer at Fort Crook. Already taken control. All arrests to be military arrests—oh, boy! that means us! General to see Legion members at ten this morning.”

“And the mayor?”

“Damned if I didn’t forget to ask!” Traile looked at Stacey remorsefully. “You really do feel badly about the mayor, don’t you?” he said. “You’re a—a good sort, Captain, if you don’t mind my impertinence in saying so,” he concluded impetuously.

“No,” said Stacey quietly, “I’m not a good sort. I’m only mad,—that’s all; and I’m not forgetting why. You’re ten years younger than I, Traile. You’re rather enjoying the lark.”

“All the same,” the other insisted soberly, “you are sorry about the mayor, as well as mad. I’ll go call up the hospital.”

“Better,” he said, when he came back. “Improving slowly.”

Stacey nodded.

When they set out for the Legion meeting they left behind them the four N. C. O.’s, in civilian dress, sitting placidly in the library.

“You know,” observed Traile exultantly, as he set his car plunging down the driveway, “it’s not at all a bad thing the general couldn’t get here till to-day. Because all the conglomerate skunks of this town didn’t get on to the fact that we meant business. They’ve had one whole joyful day with nothing doing but a few troops marching around, and they’ve fairly laid themselves open with bragging about what they did Sunday night. One long bright day of practically handing out their names on a platter. Scores and scores of ’em on the lists.”

There were perhaps three hundred Legion members in the large room they entered. General Wood appeared almost at once, the colonel from Fort Crook beside him.

Stacey gazed at the general with interest. A clear honest face, he thought swiftly, with no appearance either of bitterness or the autocratic spirit. A good soldier from his record—not a doubt of it; but why in the world had such a man chosen to be a soldier, and how had he come through it looking like that?

The general wasted no time. “There are long lists of men implicated in this business,” he said to the three hundred. “Your job will be to go out and get them. When you go to make an arrest use no more force than is necessary and use all the force that is necessary. Remember you are sent for a certain man. Come back with him. Bring him in alive if possible. But bring him in. Officers will now report to Colonel M——.” And the general left the room abruptly.

Presently Stacey and Traile received their lists—ten names apiece.

“We’d like just four men for escort—two each, sir, if it’s all the same to you. May we pick the four?” Traile asked.

“Certainly,” said the colonel. “Get service revolvers for yourselves and rifles for your men of the ordnance officer. Bring your prisoners here to police headquarters as you get them.”

“Pshaw!” the lieutenant remarked in disgust, as they were speeding swiftly homeward, with, in the tonneau behind them, the four men, armed now and in uniform, whom Stacey had chosen as escort the day before. “Pshaw! What’s twenty names?”

They left their guard in the hall of Traile’s house, went into the library, and copied their lists for the other four men who were waiting there.

“All right,” Stacey remarked. “Start at it. As soon as any one’s located send one of your men around to report to us. And you’d better detail some one to see that he doesn’t get away in the meantime.”

“Yes, sir,” said Peters. “I guess you’ll find that all right, Captain. We’ve worked out a plan.”

“I thought you would have, Sergeant.”

The men saluted, for all that they were in civilian clothes, and went out.

There was nothing to do but wait. Traile fidgeted, but Stacey was impassive. Suddenly he smiled. It had occurred to him that, having learned from the newspaper item the name of the man he had attempted to strangle Sunday night, he could easily lay an information against him and proceed to arrest him—supposing he was sufficiently recovered to permit of arrest. Stacey smiled (he had a rather grisly sense of humor) because he could picture the horror on—what was his name?—Kraft’s brutish face when he saw his assailant himself come for him. But it was only a diverting fancy. Stacey did not follow it up. In the matter of retribution he thought Kraft had had his share.

“You’ll take my car, Captain—you can drive a Cadillac, can’t you?—and I’ll use my father’s,” Traile suggested.

“All right.”

In less than an hour a man reported with an address.

“You go after him, Lieutenant,” said Stacey calmly. “You’re more in a hurry than I am.”

Traile went joyfully.

Fifteen minutes later two more were announced to be located, and, as Stacey was on the point of getting into Traile’s car with Morgan and Isaacs (his escort), and the two men who had reported, still another name was brought in.

Stacey went after them. Two he got without difficulty, disregarding their cringing protestations of innocence with the same impassive disgust he had shown—except for one moment—toward the mob on Sunday night. The third, who was hiding in the back room of a saloon and was encouraged by the presence of companions, showed fight, until Stacey rapped him dispassionately on the head with the butt of his revolver. Stacey took his prisoners to the police station and returned to the house.

Traile had already been there and gone again. Two other men were waiting, and Stacey set off once more.

“Beautiful system! Works like a charm. Good man, Peters! Too bad Burnham can’t be in on it!” he thought to himself. He wondered once or twice why Monahan couldn’t come. He felt a little sorry. He had always liked Monahan.

At four o’clock he and Traile had brought the last men on their lists to the police station.

“Pshaw!” said the lieutenant, “it’s too easy!—though two of the ones I got livened things up for a while. Come on! Let’s ask for more.”

They reported to the colonel.

“We’ve got all our men, sir,” said Traile, who was spokesman because he knew the officer personally.

“What!” the colonel exclaimed. “All twenty! Why, no one else has got a third through his list yet! Complain they can’t find their men.”

“We were lucky, I guess, sir,” Traile returned. “May we have some more names?”

“Sure! Coming in all the time.”

They received two further lists, dropped them in their pockets, and set off once more.

But when in the library each read his own paper through, Stacey started slightly. There were only nine names on the copied list that he handed to Peters.

At ten that evening they reported once more to the colonel.

“I’ve brought in all but two on my list, sir,” said Traile, “and Captain Carroll all but three on his. They’re beginning to get wise and skip out of town.”

The colonel considered the two men curiously. “How on earth do you do it?” he asked.

Traile grinned. He had always been irrepressibly unmilitary; it was why Stacey had liked him. “Just system, sir,” he replied. “Can you give us some more names?”

The colonel reflected. “Well, I’ll tell you,” he said finally. “I’ll make you out a list—one list, since it’s clear you two work together—of twenty men the others couldn’t get, but who aren’t supposed to have left the city. Go after them and see what you can do, but not till to-morrow morning. Mind! That’s an order! These are a bad lot—crooks, nearly all of them, the chief of police says. I don’t want any midnight casualties among Legion men.”

The two took their escort to their homes, then drove back to the house. But as they got out of the car Stacey paused.

“Traile,” he said, “will you let me have your car for a little while? There’s some one I want to see. I’ll be back inside of an hour.”

“Sure! You know you don’t have to ask.” But Traile could not conceal his boyish curiosity.

“I’ll tell you about it soon—by to-morrow, I hope,” Stacey remarked, climbing back into the car. “You copy out that list for our men, will you? and tell them we’ll be ready at seven to-morrow morning.”

Traile nodded, and Stacey set off. He drove the car slowly along the avenue until he sighted a policeman, then drew up beside him.

“Where’s Dodge Street, please?” he asked. “And where would eight-sixteen be?”

The officer explained carefully, and Stacey drove on. It was a long way to the street he sought, but he reached it at last and found the number—a boarding-house in the section near the railway.

“Is James Monahan in?” he asked the woman who answered the ring.

“Hall bedroom on the third floor,” she replied, looking suspiciously at his uniform. “I don’t know if he’s in.”

Stacey went up the stairs and knocked at the door. There was a kind of growl from inside that might have been meant for: “Come in”; so Stacey entered the room.