It was a small bare room, at the other end of which, beside the bed, an enormous red-haired Irishman stood like a herculean statue. He was bent forward in a half-crouching attitude and held menacingly at shoulder height, grasped in both hands, a chair, with the obvious intention of hurling it at the intruder.

Stacey involuntarily started. Then a gleam of appreciation came into his eye. The man’s attitude was magnificent. Rodin might have posed him.

“Well, upon my word, Monahan,” he said easily, “you give a fellow a cordial reception!” And he dropped into a chair—the only other one in the room.

The man lowered his chair slowly, a look of blank amazement, changing gradually to gloom, coming over his face.

“Christ Almighty! Captain!” he muttered finally. “So it’s you that’s come to arrest me!”

“It is not!” cried Stacey angrily, “and you ought to know it isn’t!”

The man shook his red hair back from his forehead and stood there, gazing at Stacey.

“Sit down, can’t you?” said Stacey sharply. “You take up too damned much room that way.”

A faint smile curved the giant’s mouth and wrinkled the corners of his eyes. He sat down carefully, the chair creaking beneath him.

Stacey reflected, staring at him thoughtfully. “Monahan,” he began at last, “I found your name on a list of men I was to go out and get for that Sunday night row. What’s the meaning of that?”

The Irishman’s face flamed. “I didn’t have a thing to do with it!” he burst out.

“Oh, hell! I know you didn’t!” said Stacey impatiently. “You were,” he continued slowly, “the most unmanageable man in my battalion (and the one I cared most for,” he added to himself). “You were quarrelsome, you had fits of sullenness, you made me trouble on an average about seven days a week, and you broke every rule it was possible to break, but you wouldn’t any more have been part of a mob to pick on a man than you’d have turned tail and run in an attack. Now what is this charge about?”

A slow smile had spread over Monahan’s vast face. “That’s a hell of a fine character you’ve given me, Captain dear!” he observed.

“It might be worse. Go on. Clear this thing up.”

“Well, I’ll tell you the whole story, Captain,” he began. “I don’t hold much with niggers, but I don’t hold neither with getting five thousand men together—real bold-like—and going out and lynching one nigger. And Sunday night when I seen what was doing I was pretty mad. But not half as mad as I was when right in front of my nose a bunch of white-livered sons of bitches got hold of the mayor, who was acting like a man, and strung him up—by God! strung him up to a pole! I was there, Captain, and I pitched in and I fought the dirtiest I knew how—’n’ you know whether we was trained to fight dirty or not. And by ’n’ by I kicked one man in the guts and another in the knee—me getting madder ’n’ madder because all th’ time there was the mayor swinging and twitching up there—but some one else got up the pole ’n’ cut him down before I could get there, ’n’ then some damn cold-blooded skunk of a photographer took a flash-light picture, ’n’ then all of a sudden there’s Sergeant McCarthy of the police beside me, ’n’ he says: ‘By God! Monahan! I didn’t think it of you!’ So there I am in the photograph at headquarters ’s clear as life, and there’s McCarthy to testify I was one of them that lynched th’ mayor.” He paused, an expression of resentment and resignation on his face.

Stacey considered him thoughtfully. “Why don’t you go around to police headquarters, give yourself up, and tell the truth?”

Monahan shook his head. “There wouldn’t anybody believe me, Captain,” he said sullenly. “‘Fat story, me lad, with your record!’ they’d say. They’d laugh at me.”

“What do you mean—‘your record’?”

“I’ve been twice in the jug, Captain, since I got back,” the Irishman growled, “and I’ll tell you about that, too, if you’ll listen.

“When I got back from across—and I wish to God I’d never come back!—I got me a job at the packing-house. Well, who should I find for my foreman but a white-livered skunk called Barton? ’N’ I’ll tell you about Barton, too. Barton, he got exempted from the draft as being the sole support of one poor aged mother ’n’ two poor little sisters. Now the truth about that skunk was, so help me God! that he never done one thing for them—not a red cent had he given them for years, Captain! All the little they had come to them from a brother’s son of the old lady.

“But that ain’t all—not half, Captain!”

Monahan paused and thrust his shaggy red head forward. His eyes gleamed dangerously.

“I had a girl, Captain, when I went away,” he went on, in a deep rumbling voice, “and a good girl she was. But this Barton, he comes shining around and shining around, ’n’ she falls for him like a little fool, ’n’ after a while he goes ’n’ marries her,—which he wouldn’t have done, Barton wouldn’t, if it hadn’t been that she had two brothers, big strong up-standing men who sort of urged him on.

“Well, when I see this skunk there for my foreman things just busted up inside me, ’n’ the very first day at th’ noon hour I laid for him in a quiet place in the yard and I says: ‘Now fight, you God-damned, white-livered son of a bastard German skunk!’ ’N’ Barton hollered for help and a lot of men come running, but not before I’d handled him a little rough—though not half what I could have done with more time. Well, would you believe it, Captain? for that little bit of righteous trifling th’ judge give me six days!”

The aggrieved innocence in the Irishman’s face was too much. Stacey struggled, then gave up and burst out laughing. “Go on! Go on, Jim!” he cried at last.

Monahan, too, had laughed, finally, but at Stacey’s words his face grew dark again. “When I come out,” he continued angrily, “I went back for my job, ’n’ they wouldn’t give it to me, the rotten skunks! ’N’ they’d blacklisted me, too. Not another job in any packing-house could I get.” He paused, with a growl.

Stacey considered him, at once sympathetically and curiously. He noted that in recounting the damning evidence of the flash-light picture and McCarthy’s misinterpretation of his presence at the lynching, Monahan had displayed only a melancholy resentment against fate; it was his later discovery that an organization was against him which shook him with anger. Now McCarthy’s remark had been grossly unjust, and the attitude of Monahan’s employers was not altogether so; yet Stacey understood the distinction—understood it emotionally. His heart went out to Monahan. They were kin.

But the Irishman continued his tale. “’N’ then I said I’d do them dirt, ’n’ I done it, Captain. There was a strike among the boys before long, ’n’ ’twas me more than any other that brought it about. ’N’ they knew ’twas me, the dirty packers! but never a thing could they get on me. ’N’ th’ strike cost them money—the only thing that hurts a packer, Captain. Then there were scabs ’n’ fighting, ’n’ I couldn’t keep out of it, ’n’ that time they caught me, ’n’ the judge—a decent sort of man and not knowing the rights of the story neither—give me a month, ’n’ they was sore because they couldn’t fix it so I’d get five years.

“’N’ that’s all, Captain. But you can see how I can’t go to the police, quiet-like, ’n’ tell them th’ truth about Sunday night.”

Stacey saw. He meditated.

“Well, look here!” he said at last. “I didn’t say anything about you or why I didn’t bring you in, but Traile” (when he spoke to Monahan Stacey did not say “Lieutenant Traile”) “Traile, though he didn’t know your name was on my list, happened to say something that would lead the authorities to believe you’d left town, along with a good many others. Why don’t you?”

“I dunno,” replied the Irishman sullenly. “I didn’t like to beat it as if I’d really been one of them skunks that lynched th’ mayor.”

“Did you have money? Because I can—”

“Lord bless you, yes, Captain!” the man interrupted. “The boys come ’n’ offered me all I’d’ve needed.”

Stacey gazed at him. “D’you mean that our boys did that?” he demanded. “Peters and Swanson and Petitvalle and the rest of them?”

“Sure they did!”

“Then, damn it all! they’ve known about this charge against you ever since I got them together, and not one of them’s come to me and told me!”

Monahan grinned. “Sure not, Captain!” he replied. “They done what you told them to, because you’re you, ’n’, as far as I can see, they’re enjoying themselves doing it, it not being what you might call strictly according to rule. But they didn’t any of them come ’n’ lay their curly heads on your breast ’n’ sob out their own little troubles.”

Stacey fumed, then got over it, and fell into thought. Here were these men who’d go to hell with him—at least, Burnham had said they would—yet he couldn’t get at them, not really. What difficult secret souls they had! He sighed. Yet somehow he was proud of their reserve.

“Besides,” Monahan remarked, as a final shot, “I give them orders they was to say nothing to you about me.”

“Oh, you did!” said Stacey drily. “You’ve been giving too many orders. It’s my turn. Now listen to me, you damned red-headed fire-brand! To-morrow afternoon I’ll try to see General Wood and I’ll tell him about you. He’s a square man and white, and I think he’ll fix the thing up. But, just in case he shouldn’t, you’ll decamp, beat it, quit this lovely city, right now. And you’ll take money from me to do that. (Confound it!” he reflected, “I’ll have to borrow money from Traile to get home myself!) And you’ll let me know where you are, but not till to-morrow night, so that I won’t know when I see the general.”

A broad grin had spread over Monahan’s face, giving it an expression of gigantic good humor. “Faith! Captain,” he drawled, with a touch of brogue in his intonation, “as an example of sacred military discipline you’re in a class by yourself, you are! An Irishman you are at heart, Captain. And it’s sorry I am to have to disobey you. But I’d feel fine, wouldn’t I? to have General Wood saying sternly: ‘And where is this man, Captain Carroll?’ and you replying sweetly: ‘I gave him money ’n’ told him to quit the town, General!’ No, no, Captain! Right here will I sit ’n’ wait for you to come ’n’ say: ‘All is forgiven, Jim dear!’ or for the police to come ’n’ get me.”

Stacey, half furious, half delighted, capitulated. “Oh, well,” he said, “I hope you’ll go out and get something to eat now and then.” He rose to go, then paused. “Look here! You told me about all this. Why couldn’t you have told Traile?” he asked curiously. “He’s a good sort and he knows every one here. He’d have cleared things up.”

But the expression of sullen hostility had returned to Monahan’s face. “Traile’s decent enough, but a swell,” he growled.

“Rot! Traile’s father’s rich; so’s mine. No difference at all. I’m a swell, too,” Stacey observed, almost gaily.

“You can call yourself names at your pleasure, Captain,” said Monahan, “but let any one else say that about you and I’ll break his head.”

Stacey laughed and departed.

He and Traile found more zest in their work next day. Not being fools, they accepted Peters’ quiet advice that all six of them make the arrests together. Even so, they had their hands full. These, thought Stacey grimly more than once, were the men they were after. Four they took, with difficulty, in the attic of a disreputable boarding-house, four in a brothel, and five on a river barge after a running fight during which Traile got a knife thrust in his arm and Jackson a bullet in the shoulder. The rest they picked up separately or in pairs. But by five in the afternoon they had got them all—all twenty. Tired and grimy, Traile with his arm in a sling, they reported to the colonel.

“Good work, gentlemen! Good work!” he said soberly. “You even got Voorhies?”

“We did, sir,” replied Traile quietly, “but with two bullets in him, which the captain here put there on my account. Two of our men are hurt—Jackson shot in the shoulder—at the hospital—will be all right; Morgan laid out with a brick—came around after a while—a bit groggy now, that’s all.”

“And you, Lieutenant?”

“Nothing, sir. A scratch. Hardly notice it.”

“You’ve done well. I’ll let the general know. I think this ends it. You can retire into the bosoms of your families and cease calling me ‘sir’—always a strain on National Army men, I observe. Congratulations, Captain Carroll.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” Stacey replied. “There was a favor I wanted to ask, sir,” he added. “Do you think it would be possible for me to see General Wood for a very few minutes?”

“I’ll find out,” said the colonel. “I feel sure he’ll be glad to see you.” And he left the room.

“Tell you all about it when I come out, Traile,” Stacey remarked abstractedly, thinking over what words he should use.

“This way, Captain,” said the colonel, returning presently. He led Stacey down a hall to a door at which he knocked. He opened it, and Stacey went through, alone, into the room beyond.

It was a large office-room, with in the centre a desk, at the further side of which General Wood was seated.

Stacey saluted stiffly.

But the general rose and held out his hand across the desk. “Come in, Captain Carroll,” he said, with his pleasant smile, and shook Stacey’s hand. “Sit down. I see you wear the D. S. C. ribbon. My congratulations.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The general considered him. “I’m glad you asked to see me, Captain,” he continued, sitting back in his chair, “because Colonel M—— has just told me of the extraordinary success you and Lieutenant Traile have had in making arrests. I have an entirely unmilitary curiosity to know how you did it.”

“Oh, well, sir,” said Stacey, “we didn’t really play fair. It happens that, though I’m not from Omaha, twenty-two of my men live here. I organized twenty of them, sir, and had sixteen of them go out in civilian clothes and locate the men on our lists.”

The general stared, then began to smile. Finally he laughed—a pleasant kindly laugh. “Most unmilitary,” he remarked, “but efficient.” Suddenly he became thoughtful. “And your men were willing to do that for you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s unusual. You say twenty out of the twenty-two?”

“Yes, sir. One of the other two is in bed with pneumonia. It’s about the twenty-second man that I should like to speak to you, sir.”

“Go on.”

“His name is Monahan, sir, a wild Irishman, the most difficult man I ever had and the best. He was on my second list of men to arrest.”

“Too bad! You arrested him?”

“No, sir.”

The general’s face grew grave. “Why not?” he inquired sharply.

“Because he is totally innocent, sir,” Stacey returned steadily, “but couldn’t prove it in court.”

“We’ll waive for a moment your action in not carrying out orders. How do you know he’s innocent?”

“Because, sir, with all his unruliness, this is exactly the sort of thing he couldn’t do. And, besides, he told me the real story himself. He wouldn’t lie to me.”

And Stacey very swiftly repeated Monahan’s story. As he did so, he watched the general’s face closely. A little gleam, Stacey thought, came into the candid blue eyes at the mention of Monahan’s black-listing. Leonard Wood, too, knew what it meant to be a man against a combination. When Stacey had finished the general made some hasty notes on a scratch-block. Then he looked up again.

“I’m glad you brought this matter up to me, Captain,” he said soberly. “I’ll see to it that the charge against Monahan is dismissed. I want every man punished who was implicated in Sunday night’s shameful affair; I don’t want any man dragged into it on account of something else he may have done. No taking advantage of this to settle old scores. However,” he concluded, with a smile, “you can’t expect me to approve officially of your action, can you?”

“Certainly not, sir,” said Stacey cheerfully. He rose.

But the general detained him. “Captain,” he asked, his mouth twitching slightly, “when you were in the service did you frequently employ your—er—admirable spirit of personal initiative?”

“No, sir,” said Stacey calmly. “Only once.”

“And—excuse my curiosity!—was it because of that occasion that you received your decoration?”

“Oh, no, sir, quite decidedly not!” answered Stacey reproachfully.

The general laughed and stood up. “Good-bye, Captain Carroll, and thanks,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” returned Stacey. They shook hands.

“Come on, Traile,” he said, a moment later. “Let’s drive like the devil over to Monahan’s place—on Dodge Street it is. I’ll tell you all about it on the way.”

But, with nothing left for him to do, apathy descended on Stacey. Despite Traile’s pleading he would not remain after the next night, when he took a late train for Vernon. He did not want to see Traile any longer. He did not want to see any one. He desired only to get away from this city. But he did not for a moment fancy that the train would carry him to any place better or even different. All life was like that. You travelled and travelled and got nowhere. One of those amusement booths where you sat perfectly still and received an illusion of motion from a painted landscape rolled swiftly past you.