Pen comforted her as best he could, and explained his reasons for going, and then he asked after the health of his grandfather Butler.

"Don't ask me," she said disconsolately. "He's grieving himself into his grave about you. But he doesn't say a word, and he won't let me say a word. Oh, dear!"

Then Henry Cobb came out and greeted Aunt Millicent, and, after a few more inquiries and admonitions, she kissed Pen good-by and went on her way.

Mr. Cobb was going on down to Chestnut Valley, but, as the train to Lowbridge did not leave until afternoon, Pen said he would go down later. So he was left on the sidewalk there alone. He did not quite know what to do with himself. The boys were, doubtless, all in school. He walked up the street a little way, and then he walked back again. He had no reason for entering any of the stores, and no desire to do so. There was really no place for him to go. Finally he decided that he would go down to the Valley and wait there for the train. So he started on down the hill. People whom he met, acquaintances of the old days, looked at him askance, spoke to him indifferently, or ignored him altogether. It seemed to him that he was like a stranger in an alien land.

As he passed by the school-house a boy whom he did not know was lingering about the steps. Otherwise there was no one in sight.

Then, suddenly, there burst upon his view a sight for which he was not prepared. In the yard on the lower side of the school-house, the yard through which he and his victorious troops had driven the retreating enemy at the battle of Chestnut Hill, a flag-staff was standing; tall, straight, symmetrical, and from its summit floated the Star-Spangled Banner; the very banner that he had trodden under his feet that February day. It was as though some one had struck him on the breast with an ice-cold hand. He gasped and stood still, his eyes fixed immovably on the flag. Then something stirred within him, a strange impulse that ran the quick gamut of his nerves; and when he came to himself he was standing in the street, with head bared and bowed, and his eyes filled with tears. Like Saul of Tarsus he had been stricken in the way, and ever afterward, whenever and wherever he saw his country's flag, his soul responded to the sight, and thrilled with memories of that April day when first he discovered that rare quality of patriotism that had hitherto lain dormant in his breast.

So he walked on down to the railroad station in Chestnut Valley, and went into the waiting-room and sat down.

It was very lonely there and it was very tiresome waiting for the train.

At noon he went out to a bakery and bought for himself a light luncheon. As he was returning to the depot he came suddenly upon Aleck Sands, who had had his dinner and was starting back to school. There was no time for either boy to consider what kind of greeting he should give to the other. They were face to face before either of them realized it. As for Pen, he bore no resentment now, toward any one. His heart had been wrung dry from that feeling through two months of labor and of contemplation. So, when the first shock of surprise was over, he held out his hand.

"Let's be friends, Aleck," he said, "and forget what's gone by."

"I'm not willing," was the reply, "to be friends with any one who's done what you've done." And he made a wide detour around the astonished boy, and marched off up the hill.

From that moment until the train came and he boarded it, Pen could never afterward remember what happened. His mind was in a tumult. Would the cruel echo of one minute of inconsiderate folly on a February day, keep sounding in his ears and hammering at his heart so long as he should live?

It was mid-afternoon when Pen reached Lowbridge, and he went at once to the Starbird mill on the outskirts of the town. He caught sight of Robert Starbird in the mill-yard, and went over to him. The man did not at first recognize him.

"I'm Penfield Butler," said the boy, "with whom you were talking last week."

"Oh, yes. Now I know you. You look a little different, some way. I've been watching out for you. How did you make out with your Grandpa Walker?"

"Well, Grandpa Walker found it a little hard to take up the work I'd been doing, but he was quite willing I should come, and helped me very much."

"I see." An amused twinkle came into the man's eyes; just such a twinkle as had come into the eyes of Henry Cobb that morning on the way to Chestnut Hill.

"Well," he added, "I guess it's all right. Come over to the office. We'll see what we can do for you."

They crossed the mill-yard and entered the office. An elderly, benevolent looking man with white side-whiskers, wearing a Grand Army button on the lapel of his coat, was seated at a table, writing. Three or four clerks were busy at their desks, and a girl was working at a type-writer in a remote corner of the room.

"Major Starbird," said the man who had brought Pen in, "this is the boy whom I told you last week I had hired as a bobbin-boy. He's a grandson of Enos Walker out at Cobb's Corners."

The man with white side-whiskers laid down his pen, removed his glasses, and looked up scrutinizingly at Pen.

"Yes," he said, "I know Mr. Walker."

"He is also," added Robert Starbird, "a grandson of Colonel Richard Butler at Chestnut Hill."

"Indeed! Colonel Butler is a warm friend of mine. I was not aware that—is your name Penfield Butler?"

"Yes, sir," replied Pen. Something in the man's changed tone of voice sent a sudden fear to his heart.

"Are you the boy who is said to have mistreated the American flag on the school grounds at Chestnut Hill?"

"I—suppose I am. Yes, sir."

Pen's heart was now in his shoes. The man with white side-whiskers raked him from head to foot with a look that boded no good. He turned to his nephew.

"I've heard of that incident," he said. "I do not think we want this young man in our employ."

Robert Starbird looked first at his uncle and then at Pen. It was plain that he was puzzled. It was equally plain that he was disappointed.

"I didn't know about this," he said. "I'm sorry if it's anything that necessitates our depriving him of the job. Penfield, suppose you retire to the waiting-room for a few minutes. I'll talk this matter over with Major Starbird."

So Pen, with the ghosts of his misdeeds haunting and harassing him, and a burden of disappointment, too heavy for any boy to bear, weighing him down, retired to the waiting-room. For the first time since his act of disloyalty he felt that his punishment was greater than he deserved. Not that he bore resentment now against any person, but he believed the retribution that was following him was unjustly proportioned to the gravity of his offense. And if Major Starbird refused to receive him, what could he do then?

In the midst of these cruel forebodings he heard his name called, and he went back into the office.

Major Starbird's look was still keen, and his voice was still forbidding.

"I do not want," he said, "to be too hasty in my judgments. My nephew tells me that Henry Cobb has given you an excellent recommendation, and we place great reliance on Mr. Cobb's opinion. It may be that your offense has been exaggerated, or that you have some explanation which will mitigate it. If you have any excuse to offer I shall be glad to hear it."

"I don't think," replied Pen frankly, "that there was any excuse for doing what I did. Only—it seems to me—I've suffered enough for it. And I never—never had anything against the flag."

He was so earnest, and his voice was so tremulous with emotion, that the heart of the old soldier could not help but be stirred with pity.

"I have fought for my country," he said, "and I reverence her flag. And I cannot have, in my employ, any one who is disloyal to it."

"I am not disloyal to it, sir. I—I love it."

"Would you be willing to die for it, as I have been?"

"I would welcome the chance, sir."

Major Starbird turned to his nephew.

"I think we may trust him," he said. "He has good blood in his veins, and he ought to develop into a loyal citizen."

Pen said: "Thank you!" But he said it with a gulp in his throat. The reaction had quite unnerved him.

"I am sure," replied Robert Starbird, "that we shall make no mistake. Penfield, suppose you come with me. I will introduce you to the foreman of the weaving-room. He may be able to take you on at once."

So Pen, with tears of gratitude in his eyes, followed his guide and friend. They went through the store-room between great piles of blankets, through the wool-room filled with big bales of fleece, and up-stairs into the weaving-room amid the click and clatter and roar of three score busy and intricate looms. Pen was introduced to the foreman, and his duties as bobbin-boy were explained to him.

"It's easy enough," said the foreman, "if you only pay attention to your work. You simply have to take the bobbins in these little running-boxes to the looms as the weavers call for them and give you their numbers. Perhaps you had better stay here this afternoon and let Dan Larew show you how. I'll give him a loom to-morrow morning, and you can take his place."

So Pen stayed. And when the mills were shut down for the day, when the big wheels stopped, and the cylinders were still, and the clatter of a thousand working metal fingers ceased, and the voices of the mill girls were no longer drowned by the rattle and roar of moving machinery, he went with Dan to his home, a half mile away, where he found a good boarding-place.

At seven o'clock the next morning he was at the mill, and, at the end of his first day's real work for real wages, he went to his new home, tired indeed, but happier than he had ever been before in all his life.

So the days went by; and spring blossomed into summer, and summer melted into autumn, and winter came again and dropped her covering of snow upon the landscape, whiter and softer than any fleece that was ever scoured or picked or carded at the Starbird mills. And then Pen had a great joy. His mother came to Lowbridge to live with him. Death had kindly released Grandma Walker from her long suffering, and there was no longer any need for his mother to stay on the little farm at Cobb's Corners. She was an expert seamstress and she found more work in the town than she could do. And the very day on which she came—Major Starbird knew that she was coming—Pen was promoted to a loom. One thing only remained to cloud his happiness. He was still estranged from the dear, tenderhearted, but stubborn old patriot at Chestnut Hill.

With only his daughter to comfort him, the old man lived his lonely life, grieving silently, ever more and more, at the fate which separated him from this brave scion of his race, aging as only the sorrowing can age, yet, with a stubborn pride, and an unyielding purpose, refusing to make the first advance toward a reconciliation.



CHAPTER IX

Pen made good use of his leisure time at Lowbridge. There was no night school there, but the courses of a correspondence school were available, and through that medium he learned much, not only of that which pertained to his calling as a textile worker, but of that also which pertained to general science and broad culture. History had a special fascination for him; the theory of government, the struggles of the peoples of the old world toward light and liberty. The working out of the idea of democracy in a country like England which still retained its monarchical form and much of its aristocratic flavor, was a theme on which he dwelt with particular pleasure. Back somewhere in the line of descent his paternal ancestors had been of English blood, and he was proud of the heroism, the spirit and the energy which had made Great Britain one of the mighty nations of the earth.

To France also, fighting and forging her way, often through great tribulation, into the family of democracies, he gave almost unstinted praise. Always splendid and chivalric, whether as monarchy, empire or republic, he felt that if he were to-day a soldier he would, next to his own beautiful Star Spangled Banner, rather fight and die under the tri-color of France than under the flag of any other nation.

But of course it was to the study and contemplation of his own beloved country that he gave most of the time he had for reading and research. He delved deeply into her history, he examined her constitution and her laws, he put himself in touch with the spirit of her organized institutions, and with the fundamental ideas, carefully worked out, that had made her free and prosperous and great. And by and by he came to realize, in a way that he had never done before, what it meant to all her citizens, and especially what it meant to him, Penfield Butler, to have a country such as this. He thought of her in those days not only as a thing of vast territorial limit and of splendid resources of power and wealth and intellect, not only as a mighty machine for humane and just government, but he thought of her also as a beloved and beautiful personality, claiming and deserving affection and fealty from all her children. And he never saw the flag, he never thought of it, he never dreamed of it, that it did not arouse in him the same tender and reverent feeling, the same lofty inspiration he had felt that day when he first saw it floating from its staff against a back-ground of clear blue sky on the school-house lawn at Chestnut Hill.

He held himself closely to his tasks. Only twice since he came away had he gone back with his mother for a holiday visit at Cobb's Corners. Grandpa Walker had a hearty handshake for him, and an affectionate greeting. The boy was forging ahead in his calling, was developing into a fine specimen of physical young manhood, and the old man was proud of him. But he did not hesitate to remind him that if a day of adversity should come the latch-string of the old house was still out, and he would always be as welcome there as he was on that winter day when he had come to them as an exile from Bannerhall.

One Memorial Day, as Pen stood at the entrance to the cemetery bridge watching the procession of those going in to do honor to the patriotic dead, he was especially impressed with the fine appearance of the local company of the National Guard which was acting as an escort to the veterans of the Grand Army post. The young men composing the company were dressed in khaki, handled their rifles with ease and accuracy, and marched with a soldierly bearing and precision that were admirable. It occurred to Pen that it might be advisable for him to join this body of citizen soldiery provided he had the necessary qualifications and could be admitted to membership. It was not so much the show and glamour of the military life that appealed to him as it was the opportunity that such a membership might afford to be of service to his country. Even then Europe was being devastated by a war which had no equal in history. The German armies, trained to a point of unexampled efficiency, with the aid of their Allies, had overwhelmed Belgium and had almost succeeded in entering Paris and in laying the whole of France under tribute. Beaten back at a crucial moment they had dug themselves into the soil of the invaded country and were holding at bay the combined forces of their Allied enemies. Half of Europe was in arms. The tragedies of the seas were appalling. International complications were grave and unending. More than one statesman of prophetic foresight had predicted that a continuance of the war must of necessity draw into the maelstrom the government of the United States. In such an event the country would need soldiers and many of them, and the sooner they could be put into training to meet such a possible emergency the better.

Moreover it was not necessary to look across the ocean to foresee the necessity for military readiness. Our neighbor to the south was in the grip of armed lawlessness and terrorism. Northern Mexico was infested with banditti which were a constant menace to the safety of our border. Such government as the stricken country had was either unable or unwilling to hold them in check. It appeared to be inevitable that the United States, by armed intervention, must sooner or later come to the protection of its citizens. In that event the little handful of troops of the regular army must of necessity be reinforced by units of the state militia. It might be that soldiers of the National Guard would be used only for patrolling the border, and it might well be that they would be sent, as was one of Penfield Butler's ancestors, into the heart of Mexico to enforce permanent peace and tranquility at the point of the bayonet.

So this was the situation, and this was the appeal to Pen's patriotic ardor. And the appeal was a strong one. But he did not at once respond to it. His work and his study absorbed his time and thought. It was not until late in the fall of that year, the year 1915, when the crises, both at home and abroad, seemed rapidly approaching, that Pen took up for earnest consideration the question of his enlistment in the National Guard. Given by nature to acting impulsively, he nevertheless, in these days, weighed carefully any proposed line of conduct on his part which might have an important bearing on his future. But he resolved, after due consideration, to join the militia if he could.

He went to a young fellow, a wool-sorter in the mills, who was a corporal in the militia, to obtain the necessary information to make his application. The corporal promised to take the matter up for him with the captain of the local company, and in due time brought him an application blank to be filled out stating his qualifications for membership. It was necessary that the paper should be signed by his mother as evidence of her consent to his enlistment since he was not yet twenty-one years of age. She signed it readily enough, for she quite approved of his ambition, and she took a motherly pride in the evidences of patriotism that he was constantly manifesting.

Armed with this document he presented himself, on a drill-night, to Captain Perry in the officers' quarters at the armory. The captain glanced at the paper, then he laid it on the table and looked up at Pen. There was a troubled expression on his face.

"I'm sorry, Butler," he said, "but I'm afraid we can't enlist you."

The announcement came as a shock, but not utterly as a surprise. For days the boy had felt a kind of foreboding that something of this sort would happen. Yet he did not at once give way to his disappointment nor accept without question the captain's pronouncement.

"May I inquire," he asked, "what your reason is for rejecting me?"

Captain Perry sat back in his chair and thrust his legs under the table. It was apparent that he was embarrassed, but it was apparent also that he would remain firm in the matter of his decision. Nor was Pen at such a loss to understand the reason for his rejection as his question might imply. He knew, instinctively, that the old story of his disloyalty to the flag had come up again, after all these years, to plague and to thwart him. He was quite right.

"I will tell you frankly, Butler," replied the captain, "what the trouble is. Since it became known that you wanted to enlist, some members of my company have come to me with a protest against accepting you. They say they represent the bulk of sentiment among the enlisted men. You see, under these circumstances, I can't very well take you. We are citizen soldiers, not under the iron discipline of the regular army, and in matters which are really not essential I must yield more or less to the wishes of my boys. They like, in a way, to choose their associates."

He ended with an apologetic wave of the hand, and a smile intended to be conciliatory. Chagrined and wounded, but not abashed nor silenced, Pen stood his ground. He resolved to see the thing through, cost what pain and humiliation it might.

"Would you mind telling me," he inquired, "what it is they have against me?"

"Why, if you want to know, yes. They say you're not patriotic. To be more explicit they say that up at Chestnut Hill, where you used to live, you—"

Pen interrupted him. His patience was exhausted, his calmness gone. "Oh, yes!" he exclaimed, "I know. They say I mistreated the flag. They say I insulted it, threw it into the mud and trampled on it. That's what they say, isn't it?"

"Yes, substantially that. Now, I don't know whether it's true or not—"

"Oh, it's true enough! I don't deny it. And they say also that on account of it all I had to leave Colonel Butler's house and go and live with my grandfather Walker at Cobb's Corners. They say that, don't they?"

"Something of that kind, I believe."

"Well, that's true too. But they don't say that it all happened half a dozen years ago, when I was a mere boy, that I did it in a fit of anger at another boy, and had nothing whatever against the flag, and that I was sorry for it the next minute and have suffered and repented ever since. They don't say that that flag is just as dear to me as it is to any man in America, that I love the sight of it; that I'd follow it anywhere, and die for it on any battlefield,—they don't say that, do they?"

His cheeks were blazing, his eyes were flashing, every muscle of his body was tense under the storm of passionate indignation that swept over him. Captain Perry, amazed and thrilled by the boy's earnestness, straightened up in his chair and looked him squarely in the face.

"No," he replied, "they don't say that. But I believe it's true. And so far as I'm concerned—"

Pen again interrupted him.

"Oh, I'm not blaming you, Captain Perry; you couldn't do anything else but turn me down. But some day, some way—I don't know how to-night—but some way I'm going to prove to these people that have been hounding me that I'm as good a patriot and can be as good a soldier as the best man in your company!"

"Good! That's splendid!" Captain Perry rose to his feet and grasped the boy's hand. "And I'll tell you what I'll do, Butler; if you're willing to face the ordeal I'll enlist you. I believe in you."

But Pen would not listen to it.

"No," he said, "I can't do that. It wouldn't be fair to you, nor to your men, nor to me. I'll meet the thing some other way. I'm grateful to you all the same though."

"Very well; just as you choose. But when you need me in your fight I'm at your service. Remember that!"

On his way home from the armory it was necessary that Pen should pass through the main street of the town. Many of the shops were still open and were brilliantly lighted, and people were strolling carelessly along the walk, laughing and chatting as though the agony and horror and brutality of the mighty conflict just across the sea were all in some other planet, billions of miles away; as though the war cloud itself were not pushing its ominous black rim farther and farther above the horizon of our own beloved land. Now and then Pen met, singly or in pairs, khaki clad young men on their way to the armory for the weekly drill. Two or three of them nodded to him as they passed by, others looked at him askance and hurried on. The resentment that had been roused in his breast at Captain Perry's announcement flamed up anew; but as he turned into the quieter streets on his homeward route this feeling gave way to one of envy, and then to one of self-pity and grief. Hard as his lot had been in comparison with the luxury he might have had had he remained at Bannerhall, he had never repined over it, nor had he been envious of those whose lines had been cast in pleasanter places. But to-night, after looking at these sturdy young fellows in military garb preparing to serve their state and their country in the not improbable event of war, an intense and passionate longing filled his breast to be, like them, ready to fight, to kill or to be killed in defense of that flag which day by day claimed his ever-increasing love and devotion. That he was not permitted to do so was heart-rending. That it was by his own fault that he was not permitted to do so was agony indeed. And yet it was all so bitterly unjust. Had he not paid, a thousand times over, the full penalty for his offense, trivial or terrible whichever it might have been? Why should the accusing ghost of it come back after all these years, to hound and harass him and make his whole life wretched?

It was in no cheerful or contented mood that he entered his home and responded to the affectionate greeting of his mother.

"You're home early, dear," she said.

"Didn't they keep you for drill? How does it seem to be a soldier?"

"I didn't enlist, mother."

"Didn't enlist? Why not? I thought that was the big thing you were going to do."

"They wouldn't take me."

"Why, Pen! what was the matter? I thought it was all as good as settled."

"Well, you know that old trouble about the flag at Chestnut Hill?"

"I know. I've never forgotten it. But every one else has, surely."

"No, mother, they haven't. That's the reason they wouldn't take me."

"But, Pen, that was years and years ago. You were just a baby. You've paid dearly enough for that. It's not fair! It's not human!"

She, too, was aroused to the point of indignant but unavailing protest; for she too knew how the boy, long years ago, had expiated to the limit of repentance and suffering the one sensational if venial fault of his boyhood.

"I know, mother. That's all true. I know it's horribly unjust; but what can you do? It's a thing you can't explain because it's partly true. It will keep cropping up always, and how I am ever going to live it down I don't know. Oh, I don't know!"

He flung himself into a chair, thrust his hands deep into his trousers' pockets and stared despairingly into some forbidding distance. She grew sympathetic then, and consoling, and went to him and put her arm around his neck and laid her face against his head and tried to comfort him.

"Never mind, dearie! So long as you, yourself, know that you love the flag, and so long as I know it, we can afford to wait for other people to find it out."

"No, mother, we can't. They've got to be shown. I can't live this way. Some way or other I've got to prove that I'm no coward and I'm no traitor."

"You're too severe with yourself, Pen. There are other ways, perhaps better ways, for men to prove that they love their country besides fighting for her. To be a good citizen may be far more patriotic than to be a good soldier."

"I know. That's one of the things I've learned, and I believe it. And that'll do for most fellows, but it won't do for me. My case is different. I mistreated the flag once with my hands and arms and feet and my whole body, and I've got to give my hands and arms and feet and my whole body now to make up for it. There's no other way. I couldn't make the thing right in a thousand years simply by being a good citizen. Don't you see, mother? Don't you understand?"

He looked up into her face with tear filled eyes. The thought that had long been with him that he must prove his patriotism by personal sacrifice, had grown during these last few days into a settled conviction and a great desire. He wanted her to see the situation as he saw it, and to feel with him the bitterness of his disappointment. And she did. She twined her arm more closely about his neck and pressed her lips against his hair.

But her heart-felt sympathy made too great a draft on his emotional nature. It silenced his voice and flooded his eyes. So she drew her chair up beside him, and he laid his head in her lap as he had used to do when he was a very little boy, and wept out his disappointment and grief.

And as he lay there a new thought came to him. Swiftly as a whirlwind forms and sweeps across the land, it took on form and motion and swept through the channels of his mind. He sprang to his feet, dashed the tears from his face, and looked down on his mother with a countenance transformed.

"Mother!" he exclaimed, "I have an idea!"

"Why, Pen; how you startled me! What is it?"

"I have an idea, mother. I'm going to—"

He paused and looked away from her.

"Going to what, Pen?"

He did not reply at once, but after a moment he said:

"I'll tell you later, mother, after it's all worked out and I'm sure of it. I'm not going to bring home to you any more disappointments."



CHAPTER X

It was three days later that Pen came home one evening, alert of step, bright-eyed, his countenance beaming with satisfaction and delight.

"Well, mother," he cried as he entered the house; "it's settled. I'm going!"

She looked up in surprise and alarm.

"What's settled, Pen? Where are you going?"

"I'm going to war."

She dropped the work at which she had been busy and sat down weakly in a chair by her dining-room table. He went to her and laid an affectionate hand on her shoulder.

"Pardon me, mother!" he continued, "I didn't mean to frighten you, but I'm so happy over it."

She looked up into his face.

"To war, Pen? What war?"

"The big war, mother. The war in France. Do you remember the other night when I told you I had an idea?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Well, that was it. It occurred to me, then, that if I couldn't fight for my own country, under my own flag, I would fight for those other countries, under their flags. They are making a desperate and a splendid war to uphold the rights of civilized nations."

He stood there, erect, manly, resolute, his face lighted with the glow of his enthusiasm. She could but admire him, even though her heart sank under the weight of his announced purpose. Many times, of an evening, they had talked together of the mighty conflict in Europe. From the very first Pen's sympathies had been with France and her Allies. He could not get over denouncing the swiftness and savagery of the raid into Belgium, the wanton destruction of her cities and her monuments of art, the hardships and brutalities imposed upon her people. The Bryce report, with its details of outrage and crime, stirred his nature to its depths. The tragedy of the Lusitania filled him with indignation and horror. Now, suddenly, had come the desire and the opportunity to fight with those peoples who were struggling to save their ideals from destruction.

"I'm going to Canada," he continued, "to enlist in the American Legion. They say hundreds and thousands of young men from the United States who are willing to fight under the Union Jack, have gone up into Canada for training and are this very minute facing the gray coats of the German enemy in northern France."

"But, Pen," she protested, "this is such a horrible war. The soldiers live in the muddiest, foulest kinds of trenches. They kill each other with gases and blazing oil. They slaughter each other by thousands with guns that go by machinery. It's simply terrible!"

"I know, mother. It's modern warfare. It's up to date. It's no pink tea as some one has said. But the more awful it is the sooner it'll be over, and the more credit there'll be to us who fight in it."

"And you'll be so far away."

She looked up at him, pale-faced, with appealing eyes. He knew how uncontrollably she shrank from the thought of losing him in this wild vortex of savagery. He patted her cheek tenderly.

"But you'll be a good patriot," he said, "and let me go. It's my duty to fight, and it's your duty to let me fight. There isn't any doubt about that. Besides, this isn't really France's war nor England's war any more than it is our war, or any more than it is the war of any country that wants to maintain the ideals of modern civilization. I shall be serving my country almost the same as though I were fighting under the Stars and Stripes. And I'll be answering in the only way it's possible for me to answer, those people who have been charging me with disloyalty to the flag. Oh, I must show you what Grandfather Butler says. He made a speech yesterday at the flag-raising at Chestnut Valley, and it's all in the Lowbridge Citizen this morning. Listen! Here's the way he winds up."

He drew a newspaper from his pocket and read:

"'So, fellow citizens, let me predict that before this great war shall come to an end the Stars and Stripes will wave over every battlefield in Europe. Sooner or later we must enter the conflict; and the sooner the better. For it's our war. It's the war of every country that loves liberty and justice. Up to this moment the Allies have been fighting for the freedom of the world, your freedom and mine, my friends, as well as their own. It is high time the Government at Washington, impelled by the patriotic ardor of our thinking citizens, declared the enemies of England and France to be our enemies, and joined hands with those heroic countries to stamp out forever the teutonic menace to liberty and civilization. In the meantime I say to the red-blooded youth of America: Glory awaits you on the war-scarred fields of France. Go forth! There is no barrier in the way. Remember that when the ragged troops of Washington were locked in a death-grip with the red-coated soldiers of King George, Lafayette, Rochambeau and de Grasse came to our aid with six and twenty thousand of the bravest sons of France. It is your turn now to spring to the aid of this stricken land and prove that you are worthy descendants of the grateful patriots of old.'"

Pen finished his reading and laid down the paper. There had been a tremor in his voice at the end, and his eyes were wet.

"That's grandfather," he said, "all over. I knew he'd feel that way about it. I had decided to go before I read that speech. Now I couldn't stay at home if I tried. I'm his grandson yet, mother, and I shall answer his call to arms."

After that he sat down quietly and unfolded to his mother all of his plans. He told her that he had gone to Major Starbird and had confided to him his desire to serve with the Allied armies. The old soldier, veteran of many battles, had sympathized with his ambition and had procured for him the necessary information concerning enlistment and training in Canada. He was to go to New York and report to a certain confidential agent there at an address which had been given him, where he would receive the necessary credentials for enlistment in the new American Legion then in process of formation. And Major Starbird had said to him that when he returned, if at all, his place at the mill would still be open to him and he would be welcomed back. He told it all with a quiet enthusiasm that evidenced not only his fixed purpose, but also the fact that his whole heart was in the adventure, and that there would be no turning back.

And his mother gave her consent that he should go. What else was there for her to do? Mothers have sent their sons to war from time immemorial. It is thus that they suffer and bleed for their country. And who shall say that their sacrifice is not as great in its way as is the sacrifice of those who offer up their lives in battle? But that night, through sleepless hours, when she thought of the loneliness that would be hers, and the hazards and horrors that would be his, and of how, after all, he was such a mere boy, to be petted and spoiled and kept at home rather than to be sent out to meet the trials and terrors of the most cruel war in history, her heart failed her, and she wept in unspeakable dread. It is the women, in the long run, who are the greater sufferers from the armed clash of nations!

The mother who conceals her grief While to her breast her son she presses, Then breathes a few brave words and brief, Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, With no one but her secret God To know the pain that weighs upon her, Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod Received on Freedom's field of honor!

It was three days later that Pen went away. There were many little matters to which he must attend before going. His mother must be safeguarded and her comfort looked after during his absence. His own private affairs must be left in such shape that in the event of his not returning they could easily be closed up. He permitted nothing to remain at loose ends. But to no one save to his employer and his mother did he confide his plans. He did not care to publish a purpose that lay so near to his heart. He went on the early morning train. Major Starbird was at the station to wring his hand and bid him Godspeed and wish him a safe return. But his mother was not there. She was in her room at home, her white face against the window, gazing with tear-wet eyes toward the south. She heard the distant rumble of the cars as they came, and the blasts from the far away whistle fell softly on her ears. And, by and by, the ever lengthening and fading line of smoke against the far horizon told her that the train bearing her only child to unknown and possibly dreadful destiny was on its way.

Pen had been in New York before. On several memorable occasions, as a boy, he had accompanied his grandfather Butler to the city and had enjoyed the sights and sounds of the great metropolis, and had learned something of its ways and byways. He had no difficulty, therefore, in finding the address that had been given him by Major Starbird, and, having found it, he was made welcome there. He learned, what indeed he already knew, that Canada was not averse to filling out her quota of loyal troops for the great war by enlisting and training young men of good character and robust physique from the States. Armed with confidential letters of introduction and commendation, and certain other requisite documents, he left the quiet office on the busy street feeling that at last the desire of his heart was to be fully gratified. It was now late afternoon. He was to take a night train from the Grand Central station which would carry him by way of Albany to Toronto. Borne along by the crowd of home-going people he found himself on Broadway facing Trinity Church. The dusk of evening was already falling, and here and there the glow of electric lamps began to pierce the gloom. On one occasion he had wandered, with his grandfather, through Trinity Churchyard, and had read and been thrilled by inscriptions on ancient tomb-stones marking the graves of those who had served their country well in her early and struggling years. Had it been still day he would not have been able to resist the impulse to repeat that experience of his boyhood. As it was, he stood, for many minutes, peering through the iron railing that separated the living, hurrying throngs on the pavement from the narrow homes of those who, more than a century before, had served their generation by the will of God and had fallen on sleep.

As he turned his eyes away from the deepening shadows of the graveyard it occurred to him that he would go to a hotel formerly frequented by Colonel Butler, and get his dinner there before going to the train. It would seem like old times, for it was there that they had stayed when he had accompanied his grandfather on those trips of his boyhood. To be sure the colonel would not be there, but delightful memories would be stirred by revisiting the place, and he felt that those memories would be most welcome this night.

Ever more and more, in these latter days, his thoughts had turned toward his boyhood home. After six years of absence and estrangement there was still no tenderer spot in his heart, save the one occupied by his mother, than the spot in which reposed his memories of his childhood's hero, the master of Bannerhall. He wished that there might have been a reconciliation between them before he went to war. He would have given much if only he could have seen the stern face with its gray moustache and its piercing eyes, if he could have felt the warm grasp of the hand, if he could have heard the firm and kindly voice speak to him one word of farewell and Godspeed. He sighed as he turned in at the subway kiosk and descended the steps to the platform to join the pushing and the jostling crowd on its homeward way. At the Grand Central Station he procured his railway tickets and checked his baggage and then came out into Forty-second street. After a few minutes of bewildered turning he located himself and made his way without further trouble to his hotel. But the place seemed strange to him now; not as spacious as when he was a boy, not as ornate, not as wonderful. It was only after he had eaten his dinner and come out again into the lobby that it took on any kind of a familiar air, and not until he was ready to depart that he could have imagined the erect form of Colonel Butler, with its imposing and attractive personality, approaching him through the crowd as he had so often seen it in other years.

Then, as he turned toward the street door, a strange thing happened. A familiar figure emerged from a side corridor and came out into the main lobby in full view of the departing boy. It needed no second glance to convince Pen that this was indeed his grandfather. The stern face, the white, drooping moustache, the still soldierly bearing, could belong to no one else. The colonel stopped for a minute to make inquiry and obtain information from a hotel attendant, then, having apparently learned what he wished to know, he stood looking searchingly about him.

Pen stood still in his tracks and wondered what he should do. The vision had come upon him so suddenly that it had quite taken away his breath. But it did not take long for him to decide. He would do the obvious and manly thing and let the consequences take care of themselves. He stepped forward and held out his hand.

"How do you do, grandfather," he said.

Colonel Butler turned an unrecognizing glance on the boy.

"You have the advantage of me, sir," he replied. "I—"

He stopped speaking suddenly, his face flushed, and a look of glad surprise came into his eyes.

"Why, Penfield!" he exclaimed, "is this you?"

But, before Pen had time to respond, either by word or movement, to the greeting, the old man's gloved hand which had been thrust partly forward, fell back to his side, the light of recognition left his eyes, and he stood, as stern-faced and determined as he had stood on that February night, years ago, asking about a boy and a flag.

"Yes, grandfather," said Pen, "it is I."

The colonel did not turn away, nor did any harsh word come to his lips. He spoke with cold courtesy, as he might have spoken to any casual acquaintance.

"This is a surprise, sir. I had not expected to see you here."

He made a brave effort to control his voice, but it trembled in spite of him.

Pen's heart was stirred with sudden pity. He saw as he looked on his grandfather's face, that age and sorrow had made sad inroads during these few years. The hair and moustache, iron-gray before, were now completely white, the countenance was deep-lined and sallow, the eyes had lost their piercing brightness. But Pen did not permit his surprise, or his sorrow, or his grief at the manner of his reception, to show itself by any word or look.

"Nor did I expect to see you," he said. "Have you been long in the city?"

"I arrived less than an hour ago. I expect to meet here my friend Colonel Marshall with whom I shall discuss the state of the country."

"Did—did you come alone?"

It was the wrong thing to say, and Pen knew it the moment he had said it. But the old man's appearance of feebleness had aroused in him the sudden thought that he ought not to be traveling alone, and, impulsively, he had given expression to the thought. Colonel Butler straightened his shoulders and turned upon his grandson a look of fine scorn.

"I came alone, sir," he replied. "How else did you expect me to come?"

"Why, I thought possibly Aunt Milly might have come along."

"In troublous times like these the woman's place is at the fire-side. The man's duty should lead him wherever his country calls, or wherever he can be of service to a people defending themselves against the onslaught of armed autocracy."

"Yes, grandfather."

"I am therefore here to take counsel with certain men of judgment concerning the participation of this country in the bloody struggle that is going on abroad. After that I shall proceed to Washington to urge upon the heads of our government my belief that the time is ripe to throw the weight of our influence, and the weight of our wealth, and the weight of our armies, into the scale with France and Great Britain for the subjugation of those central powers that are waging upon these gallant countries a most unjust and unrighteous war."

"Yes, grandfather; I agree with you."

"Of course you do, sir. No right-minded man could fail to agree with me. And I shall tender my sword and my services, to be at the disposal of my country, in whatever branch of the service the Secretary of War may see fit to assign me as soon as war is declared. As a matter of fact, sir, we are already at war with Germany. Both by land and sea she has, for the last year, been making open war upon our commerce, on our citizens, on the integrity of our government. It is exasperating, sir, exasperating beyond measure, to see the authorities at Washington drifting aimlessly and unpreparedly into an armed conflict which is bound to come. Our president should demand from congress at once a declaration that a state of war exists with Germany, and with that declaration should go a system of organized preparedness, and then, sir, we should go to Europe and fight, and, thus fighting, help our Allies and save our native land. It shall be my errand to Washington to urge such an aggressive course."

Of his belief in his theory there could be no doubt. Of his earnestness in advocating it there was not the slightest question. His profound sympathy with the Allies did credit to his heart as well as his judgment. And the devotion of this one-armed and enfeebled veteran to the cause of his own country, his eagerness to serve her in the field and his confidence in his ability still to do so, were pathetic as well as inspiring. It was all so big, and patriotic, and splendid, even in its childish egotism and simplicity, that the pure absurdity of it found no place in the mind of this affectionate and manly-hearted boy.

"I believe you are right, grandfather," he said, "and it's noble of you to offer your services that way."

"Thank you, sir!"

The colonel turned as if to move toward the information desk at the office, and then turned back.

"Pardon me!" he said, "but I forgot to inquire concerning your own errand in the city."

"I am on my way to Canada, grandfather."

A look of surprise came into the old man's eyes, followed at once by an expression of infinite scorn. He remembered that, in the days of the civil war, slackers and rebel sympathizers who wished to evade the draft made their way across the national border into Canada. They had received the contempt of their own generation and had drawn a figurative bar-sinister across the shield of their descendants. Could it be possible that this grandchild of his was about to add disgrace to disloyalty? That, in addition to heaping insults on the flag of his country as a boy, he was now, as a man, taking time by the forelock and escaping to the old harbor of safety to avoid some possible future conscription? The absurdity and impracticability of such a proposition did not occur to him at the moment, only the humiliation and the horror of it.

"To Canada, sir?" he demanded; "the refuge of cowards and copperheads! Why to Canada, sir, in the face of this impending crisis in your country's affairs?"

His voice rose at the end in angry protest. The look of scorn that blazed from under his gray eye-brows was withering in its intensity. Pen, who was sufficiently familiar with the history of the civil war to know what lay in his grandfather's mind, answered quickly but quietly:

"I am going to Canada to enlist."

"To—to what? Enlist?"

"Yes; in the American Legion; to fight under the Union Jack in France."

A pillar stood near by, and the colonel backed up against it for support. The shock of the surprise, the sudden revulsion of feeling, left him nerveless.

"And you—you are going to war?"

He could not quite believe it yet. He wanted confirmation.

"Yes, grandfather; I'm going to war. I couldn't stay out of it. Until my own country takes up arms I'll fight under another flag. When she does get into it I hope to fight under the Stars and Stripes."

A wonderful look came into the old man's face, a look of pride, of satisfaction, of unadulterated joy. His mouth twitched as though he desired to speak and could not. Then, suddenly, he thrust out his one arm and seized Pen's hand in a mighty and affectionate grip. In that moment the sorrow, the bitterness, the estrangement of years vanished, never to return.

"I am proud of you, sir!" he said. "You are worthy of your illustrious ancestors. You are maintaining the best traditions of Bannerhall."

"I'm glad you're pleased, grandfather."

"Pleased is too mild an expression. I am rejoiced. It is the proudest moment of my life." He stepped away from the pillar, straightened his shoulders, and gazed benignantly on his grandson. "Not that I especially desire," he added after a moment, "that you should be subjected to the hazards and the hardships of a soldier's life. That goes without saying. But it is the hazards and the hardships he faces that make the soldier a hero. Death itself has no terrors for the patriotic brave. 'Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.'"

His eyes wandered away into some alluring distance and his thought into the fields of memory, and for a moment he was silent. Nor did Pen speak. He felt that the occasion was too momentous, the event too sacred to be spoiled by unnecessary words from him.

It was the colonel who at last broke the silence.

"It is not an opportune time," he said, "to speak of the past. But, as to the future, you may rest in confidence. While you are absent your mother shall be looked after. Her every want shall be supplied. It will be my delight to attend to the matter personally."

Swift tears sprang to Pen's eyes. Surely the beautiful, the tender side of life was again turning toward him. It was with difficulty that he was able sufficiently to control his voice to reply:

"Thank you, grandfather! You are very good to us."

"Do not mention it! How about your own wants? Have you money sufficient to carry you to your destination?"

"Thank you! I have all the money I need."

"Very well. I shall communicate with you later, and see that you lack nothing for your comfort. Will you kindly send me your address when you are permanently located in your training camp?"

"Yes, I will."

Pen glanced at his watch and saw that he had but a few minutes left in which to catch his train.

"I'm sorry, grandfather," he said, "but when I met you I was just starting for the station to take my train north; and now, if I don't hurry, I'll get left."

He held out his hand and the old man grasped it anew.

"Penfield, my boy;" his voice was firm and brave as he spoke. "Penfield, my boy, quit yourself like the man that you are! Remember whose blood courses in your veins! Remember that you are an American citizen and be proud of it. Farewell!"

He parted his white moustache, bent over, pressed a kiss upon his grandson's forehead, swung him about to face the door, and watched his form as he retreated. When he turned again he found his friend, Colonel Marshall, standing at his side.

"I have just bidden farewell," he said proudly, "to my grandson, Master Penfield Butler, who is leaving on the next train for Canada where he will go into training with the American Legion, and eventually fight under the Union Jack, on the war-scarred fields of France."

"He is a brave and patriotic boy," replied Colonel Marshall.

"It is in his blood and breeding, sir. No Butler of my line was ever yet a coward, or ever failed to respond to a patriotic call."

And as for Pen, midnight found him speeding northward with a heart more full and grateful, and a purpose more splendidly fixed, than his life had ever before known.



CHAPTER XI

It was late in the day following his departure from New York that Pen reached his destination in Canada. In a certain suburban town not far from Toronto he found a great training camp. It was here that selected units of the new Dominion armies received their military instruction prior to being sent abroad. It was here also that many of the young men from the States, desirous of fighting under the Union Jack, came to enlist with the Canadian troops and to receive their first lessons in the science of warfare. Canada was stirred as she had never been stirred before in all her history. Her troops already at the front had received their first great baptism of fire at Langemarck. They had fought desperately, they had won splendidly, but their losses had been appalling. So the young men of Canada, eager to avenge the slaughter of their countrymen, were hastening to fill the depleted ranks, and the young men from the States were proud to bear them company.

But life in the training camps was no holiday. It was hard, steady, strenuous business, carried on under the most rigid form of discipline. Yet the men were well clothed, well fed, had comfortable quarters, enjoyed regular periods of recreation, and were content with their lot, save that their eagerness to complete their training and get to the firing line inevitably manifested itself in expressions of impatience.

To get up at 5:30 in the morning and drill for an hour before breakfast was no great task, nor two successive hours of fighting with tipped bayonets, nor throwing of real bombs and hand-grenades, nor was the back-breaking digging of trenches, nor the exhaustion from long marches, if only by such experiences they could fit themselves eventually to fight their enemy not only with courage but also with that skill and efficiency which counts for so much in modern warfare.

It was ten days after Pen's enlistment that, being off duty, he crossed the parade ground one evening and went into the large reading and recreation room of the Young Men's Christian Association, established and maintained there for the benefit of the troops in training. He had no errand except that he wished to write a letter to his mother, and the conveniences offered made it a favorite place for letter writing.

There were few people in the room, for it was still early, and the writing tables were comparatively unoccupied. But at one of them, with his back to the entrance, sat a young man in uniform busy with his correspondence. Pen glanced at him casually as he sat down to write; his quarter face only was visible. But the glance had left an impression on his mind that the face and figure were those of some one he had at some time known. He selected his writing paper and took up a pen, but the feeling within him that he must look again and see if he could possibly recognize his comrade in arms was too strong to be resisted. Apparently the feeling was mutual, for when Pen did turn his eyes in the direction of the other visitor, he found that the young man had ceased writing, and was sitting erect in his chair and looking squarely at him. It needed no second glance to convince him that his companion was none other than Aleck Sands. For a moment there was an awkward pause. It was apparent that the recognition was mutual, but it was apparent also that in the shock of surprise neither boy knew quite what to do. It was Aleck who made the first move. He rose, crossed the room to where Pen was sitting, and held out his hand.

"Pen," he said, "are you willing to shake hands with me now? You know I was dog enough once to refuse a like offer from you."

"I'm not only willing but glad to, if you want to let bygones be bygones."

"I'll agree to that if you will agree to forgive me for what I've done against you and against the flag."

"What you've done against the flag?"

Pen was staring at him in surprise. When had the burden of that guilt been shifted?

"Yes, I," answered Aleck. "I did far more against the flag that day at Chestnut Hill than you ever thought of doing. I haven't realized it until lately, but now that I do know it, I'm trying in every way I possibly can to make it right."

"Why, you didn't trample on it, nor speak of it disrespectfully, nor refuse to apologize to it; it was I who did all that."

"I know, but I dogged you into it. If I myself had paid proper respect to the flag you would never have got into that trouble. Pen, I never did a more unpatriotic, contemptible thing in my life than I did when I wrapped that flag around me and dared you to molest me. It was a cowardly use to make of the Stars and Stripes. Moreover, I did it deliberately, and you—you acted on the impulse of the moment. It was I who committed the real fault, and it has been you who have suffered for it."

"Well, I gave you a pretty good punching, didn't I?"

"Yes, but the punching you gave me was not a thousandth part of what I deserved; and, if you think it would even matters up any, I'd be perfectly willing to stand up to-night and let you knock me down a dozen times. Since this war came on I've despised myself more than I can tell you for my treatment of the flag that day, and for my treatment of you ever since."

That he was in dead earnest there could be no doubt. Phlegmatic and conservative by nature, when he was once roused he was not easily suppressed. Pen began to feel sorry for him.

"You're too hard on yourself," he said. "I think you did make a mistake that day, so did I. But we were both kids, and in a way we were irresponsible."

"Yes, I know. There's something in that, to be sure. But that doesn't excuse me for letting the thing go as I got older and knew better, and letting you bear all the blame and all the punishment, and never lifting a finger to try to help you out. That was mean and contemptible."

"Well, it's all over now, so forget it."

"But I haven't been able to forget it. I've thought of it night and day for a year. A dozen times I've started to hunt you up and tell you what I'm telling you to-night, and every time I've backed out. I couldn't bear to face the music. And when I heard that they turned you down when you tried to enlist in the Guard at Lowbridge, on account of the old trouble, that capped the climax. I couldn't stand it any longer; I felt that I had to shoulder my part of that burden somehow, and that the very best way for me to do it was to go and fight; and if I couldn't fight under my own flag, then to go and fight under the next best flag, the Union Jack. I felt that after I'd had my baptism of fire I'd have the face and courage to go to you and tell you what I've been telling you now. But I'm glad it's over. My soul! I'm glad it's over!"

He dropped into a chair by the table and rested his head on his open hand as though the recital of his story had exhausted him. Pen stood over him and laid a comforting arm about his shoulder.

"It's all right, old man!" he said. "You've done the fair thing, and a great lot more. Now let's call quits and talk about something else. When did you come up here?"

"Five days ago. I'm just getting into the swing."

"Well, you're exactly the right sort. I'm mighty glad you're here. We'll fix it so we can be in the same company, and bunk together. What do you say?"

"Splendid! if you're willing. Can it be done? I'm in company M of the —th Battalion."

"I know of the same thing having been done since I've been here. We'll try it on, anyway."

They did try it on, and three days later the transfer was made. After that they were comrades indeed, occupying the same quarters, marching shoulder to shoulder with each other in the ranks, sharing with each other all the comforts and privations of life in the barracks, moved by a common impulse of patriotism and chivalry, longing for the day to come when they could prove their mettle under fire.

But it was not until February 1916 that they went abroad. After three months of intensive training they were hardened, supple, and skillful. But their military education was not yet complete. Commanders of armies know that raw or semi-raw troops are worse than useless in modern warfare. Soldiers in these days must know their business thoroughly if they are to meet an enemy on equal terms. They must be artisans as well as soldiers, laborers as well as riflemen, human machines compounded of blood and courage.

So, in a great camp not far from London, there were three months more of drill and discipline and drastic preparation for the firing line.

But at last, in late May, when the young grass was green on England's lawns, and the wings of birds were flashing everywhere in the sunshine, and nature was rioting in leaf and flower, a troop-ship, laden to the gunwales with the finest and the best of Canada's young patriots and many of the most stalwart youth of the States, landed on the welcoming shore of France. In England evidences of the great war had been marked, abundant and harrowing. But here, in the country whose soil had been invaded, the grim and stirring actualities of the mighty conflict were brought home to the onlooker with startling distinctness. At the railroad station, where the troops entrained for the front, every sight and sound was eloquent with the tenseness of preparation and the tragedy of the long fight. Soldiers were everywhere. Coats of blue, trousers of red, jackets of green, gave color and variety to the prevailing mass of sober khaki. Here too, dotting the hurrying throng, were the pathetic figures of the stricken and wounded, haggard, bandaged, limping, maimed, on canes and crutches, back from the front, released from the hospitals, seeking the rest and quiet that their sacrifices and heroism had so well earned. And here too, ministering to the needs of the suffering and the helpless, were many of the white-robed nurses of the Red Cross.

It was evening when the train bearing the first section of the —th Battalion of Canadian Light Infantry to which Pen and Aleck belonged steamed slowly out of the station. All night, in the darkness, across the fields and through the fine old forests of northern France the slow rumble of the coaches, interrupted by many stops, kept up. But in the gray of the early morning, a short distance beyond Amiens, in the midst of a mist covered meadow, the train pulled up for the last time. This had been fighting ground. Here the invading hosts of Germany had been met and driven back. Ruined farm houses, shattered trees, lines of old trenches scarring the surface of the meadow, all told their eloquent tale of ruthless and devastating war. And yonder, in the valley, the slow-moving Somme wound its shadowy way between green banks and overhanging foliage as peacefully and beautifully as though its silent waters had never been flecked with the blood of dying men. Even now, as the troops detrained and marched to the sections of the field assigned them, the dull and continuous roar of cannon in the distance came to their ears with menacing distinctness.

"It's the thunder of the guns!" exclaimed Pen. "I hope to-morrow finds us where they're firing them."

"I'm with you," responded Aleck. "I shall be frightened to death when they first put me under fire, but the sooner I'm hardened to it the better."

"Tut! You'll be as brave as a lion. It's your kind that wins battles."

Pen turned his face toward a horizon lost in a haze of smoke, and the look in his eyes showed that he at least, would be no coward when the supreme moment came. Lieutenant Davis of their company strolled by; impatiently waiting for further orders. He was a strict disciplinarian indeed, but he was very human and his men all loved him. Pen pointed in the direction from which came the muffled sounds of warfare.

"When shall we be there, Lieutenant?" he asked.

"I don't know, Butler," was the response. "It may be to-morrow; it may be next month. Only those in high command know and they're not telling. We may camp right here for weeks."

But they did not camp there. In the early evening there came marching orders, and, under cover of darkness, the entire battalion swung into a muddy and congested road and tramped along it for many hours. But they got no nearer to the fighting line. Weary, hungry and thirsty, they stopped at last on the face of a gently sloping hill protected from the north by a forest which had not yet suffered destruction either at the hands of sappers or from the violence of shells. It was apparent that this had been a camp for a large body of troops before the advancement of the lines. It was deserted now, but there were many caves in the hillside, and hundreds of little huts made of earth and wood under the sheltering trunks and branches of the trees. It was in one of these huts that Pen and Aleck, together with four of their comrades, were billeted. It was not long after their arrival before hastily built fires were burning, and coffee, hot and fragrant, was brewing, to refresh the tired bodies of the men, until the arrival of the provision trains should supply them with a more substantial breakfast. There was plenty of straw, however, and on that the weary troops threw themselves down and slept.

At this camp the battalion remained until the middle of June. There were drills, marching and battalion maneuvers by day, such recreation in the evenings as camp life could afford, sound sleeping on beds of straw at night, and always, from the distance, sometimes loud and continuous, sometimes faint and occasional, the thunder of the guns. And always, too, along the muddy high-road at the foot of the slope, a never-ending procession of provision and munition trains laboring toward the front, and the human wreckage of the firing line, and troops released from the trenches, passing painfully to the rear. No wonder the men grew impatient and longed for the activities of the front even though their ears were ever filled with tales of horror from the lips of those who had survived the ordeal of battle.

But, soon after the middle of June, their desires were realized. Orders came to break camp and prepare to march, to what point no one seemed to know, but every one hoped and expected it would be to the trenches. There was a day of bustle and hurry. The men stocked up their haversacks, filled their canteens and cartridge-boxes, put their guns in complete readiness, and at five o'clock in the afternoon were assembled and began their march. The road was ankle-deep with mud, for there had been much rain, and it was congested with endless convoys. There were many delays. A heavy mist fell and added to the uncertainty, the weariness and discomfort. But no complaint escaped from any man's lips, for they all felt that at last they were going into action. Four hours of marching brought them into the neighborhood of the British heavy artillery concealed under branches broken from trees or in mud huts, directing their fire on the enemy's lines by the aid of signals from lookouts far in advance or in the air. The noise of these big guns was terrific, but inspiring. At nine o'clock there was a halt of sufficient length to serve the men with coffee and bread, and then the march was resumed. By and by shells from the guns of the Allies began to shriek high over the heads of the marching men, and were replied to by the enemy shells humming and whining by, seeking out and endeavoring to silence the Allied artillery. Now and then one of these missiles would burst in the rear of the column, sending up a glare of flame and a cloud of dust and debris, but at what cost in life no one in the line knew.

As the men advanced the mud grew deeper, the way narrower, the congestion greater. The passing of enemy shells was less frequent, but precautions for safety were increased. Advantage was taken of ravines, of fences, of fourth and fifth line trenches. The troops ere not beyond range of the German sharpshooters, and the swish of bullets was heard occasionally in the air above the heads of the marchers.

It was toward morning that the destination of the column was reached, and, in single file, the men of Pen's section passed down an incline into their first communicating trench, and then past a maze of lateral trenches to the opening into the salients they were to supply. It was here that the soldiers whom they were to relieve filed out by them. Going forward, they took the places of the retiring section. At last they were in the first line trench, with the enemy trenches scarcely a hundred meters in front of them. Sentries were placed at the loop-holes made in the earth embankment, and the remainder of the section retired to their dug-outs. These under-ground rooms, built down and out from the trench, and bomb-proof, were capable of holding from eight to a dozen men. They were carpeted with straw, some of them had shelves, and in many of them discarded bayonets were driven into the walls to form hooks. It was in these places that the men who were off duty rested and ate and slept.

In the gray light of the early June morning, Pen, who had been posted at one of the loop-holes as a listening sentry, looked out to see what lay in front of him. But the most that could be seen were the long and winding earth embankments that marked the lines of the German entrenchments, and between, on "no man's land," a maze of barbed wire entanglements. No living human being was in sight, but, at one place, crumpled up, partly sustained by meshes of wire, there was a ragged heap, the sight of which sent a chill to the boy's heart. It required no second glance to discover that this was the unrescued body of a soldier who had been too daring. Pen had seen his first war-slain corpse. Indeed, war was becoming to him now a reality. For, suddenly, a little of the soft earth at his side spattered into his face. An enemy bullet had struck there. In his eagerness to see he had exposed too much of his head and shoulders and had become the target for Boche sharpshooters. Other bullets pattered down around his loop-hole, and only by seeking the quick shelter of the trench did he escape injury or death. It was his first lesson in self-protection on the firing-line, but he profited by it. Two hours later he and Aleck, who had also been doing duty on a lookout platform, were relieved by their comrades, and threw themselves down on the straw of their dug-out and, wearied to the point of exhaustion, slept soundly. With the dawning of day the noise of cannonading increased, the whining of deadly missiles grew more incessant, the crash of exploding shells more frequent, but, until they were roused by their sergeant and bidden to eat their breakfast which had been brought by a ration-party, both boys slept. So soon had the menacing sounds of war become familiar to their ears. After breakfast those who were not on sentry duty were put to work repairing trenches, filling sand-bags, enlarging dug-outs, pumping water from low places, cleaning rifles, performing a hundred tasks which were necessary to make trench life endurable and reasonably safe. The food was good and was still abundant. There were fresh meat, bacon, canned soups and vegetables, bread, butter, jam and coffee. The two hours on sentry duty were by far the most strenuous in the daily routine. To remain in one position, with eyes glued to the narrow slit in the embankment, gas mask at hand, hand-grenades in readiness, rifle in position ready to be discharged on the second, the fate of the whole army perhaps resting on one man's vigilance, this was no easy task.

But there were no complaints. The men were on the firing line, ready to obey orders, whatever they might be; they asked only one thing more, and that was to fight. But, in these days, there was a lull in the actual fighting. The "big drive" had not yet been launched. Aside from a skirmish now and then, a fierce bombardment for a few hours, an attempt, on one side or the other, to rush a trench, there was little aggressive warfare in this neighborhood, and few casualties; nor was there any material variance in the front lines of trenches on either side. There were six days of this kind of duty and then the men of Pen's company were relieved and sent to the rear for a week's rest, to act as reserves, and to be called during that time only in case of an emergency. But the following week saw them again at the front; not in the same trench where they had first served, but in an advanced position farther to the south. The trenches here were not so roomy nor so dry as had been those of the first assignment. There was much mud, slippery and deep, to be contended with, and the walls at the sides were continually caving in. The duties of the men, however, were not materially different from those with which they were already familiar. Clashes had been more frequent here, and the dead bodies of soldiers, crumpled up in the trench or lying, unrescued, on the scarred and fire-swept surface of "no man's land" were not an unusual sight. But the "rookies" were becoming hardened now to many of the horrors of war.

It was while they were in this trench that Pen had his "baptism of fire." Late one afternoon the German artillery began shelling fiercely the first line of Allied trenches. Aleck and Pen were both on sentry duty. Just beyond them Lieutenant Davis stood at an advanced lookout post intent on studying the outside situation by means of his periscope. At irregular intervals machine guns, deftly hidden from the sight of the enemy, poked their menacing mouths toward the Boche lines. Now and then, finding its mark at some point in the course of the winding trench, an enemy shell would explode throwing clouds of dust and debris into the air, wrecking the earthworks where it fell, taking its toll of human lives and limbs. Twice Pen was thrown off his feet by the shock of near-by explosions, but he escaped injury, as did also Aleck. It was apparent that the Germans were either making a feint for the purpose of attacking at some unexpected point, or else that they were preparing for a charge on the trenches which they were bombarding. It developed that the latter theory was the correct one, for, after a while, they directed their fire to the rear of the first line trenches, and set up a still more furious bombardment. This, as every one knew, was for the purpose of preventing the British from bringing up reinforcements, and to give their own troops the opportunity to charge into the Allied front. The charge was not long delayed. A gray wave poured over the parapet of the German first line trench, rolled through the prepared openings in their own barbed-wire entanglements, and advanced, alternately running and creeping, toward the Allied line. But when the Germans were once in the open a terrible thing happened to them. The machine guns from all along the British trenches met them with a rain of bullets that mowed them down as grain falls to the blades of the farmer's reaper. The rifles of the men in khaki, resting on the benches of the parapet, spit constant and deadly fire at them. The artillery to the rear, in constant telephone touch with the first line, quickly found the range and dropped shells into the charging mass with terrible effect. A second body of gray-clad soldiers with fixed bayonets swarmed out of the German trenches and came to the help of their hard-beset comrades, and met a similar fate. Then a third platoon came on, and a fourth. The resources of the enemy in men seemed endless, their persistence remarkable, their recklessness in the face of sure death almost unbelievable. The noise was terrific; the constant rattle of the machine guns, the spitting of rifles, the booming of the artillery, the whining and crashing of shells, the yells of the charging troops, the shrieks of the wounded. In the British trenches the men were assembled, ready to pour out at the whistle and repel the assault on open ground; but it was not necessary for them to do so. The German ranks, unable to withstand the fire that devoured them as they met it, a fire that it was humanly impossible for any troops to withstand, turned back and sought the shelter of their trenches, leaving their dead and wounded piled and sprawled by the hundreds on the ground they had failed to cross.

The casualties among the Canadian troops were not large, and they had occurred mostly before the charge had been launched, but it was in deep sorrow that the men from across the ocean gathered up from the shattered trenches the pierced and broken bodies of their comrades, and sent them to the rear, the living to be cared for in the hospitals, the dead to be buried on the soil of France where they had bravely fought and nobly died.



CHAPTER XII

The great Somme drive began on July 1, 1916, after a week's devastating bombardment of the German lines. The enemy trenches had been torn and shattered, and when the Allied armies, in great numbers and with abundant ammunition, swept out and down upon them, the impetus and force of the advance were irresistible. Trenches were blotted out. Towns were taken. The German lines melted away over wide areas. Victory, decisive and permanent, rested on the Allied banners. On the third of the month the British took La Boiselle and four thousand three hundred prisoners. But on the fourth the enemy troops turned and fought like wild animals at bay. This was the day on which Aleck received his wounds. In the morning, as they lay sprawled in a ravine which had been captured the night before, waiting for orders to push still farther on, Aleck had said to Pen:

"You know what day this is, comrade?"

"Indeed I do!" was the reply, "it's Independence Day."

"Right you are. I wish I could get sight of an American flag. It will be the first time in my life that I haven't seen 'Old Glory' somewhere on the Fourth of July."

"True. Back yonder in the States they'll be having parades and speeches, and the flag will be flying from every masthead. If only they could be made to realize that it's really that flag that we're fighting for, you and I, and drop this cloak of neutrality, and come over here as a nation and help us, wouldn't that be glorious?"

Pen's face was grimy, his uniform was torn and stained, his hair was tousled; somewhere he had lost his cap and the times were too strenuous to get another; but out from his eyes there shone a tenderness, a longing, a determination that marked him as a true soldier of the American Legion.

The cannonading had again begun. Shells were whining and whistling above their heads and exploding in the enemy lines not far beyond. Off to the right, a village in flames sent up great clouds of smoke, and the roar of the conflagration was joined to the noise of artillery. Back of the lines the ground was strewn with wreckage, pitted with shell-holes, ghastly with its harvest of bodies of the slain. With rifles gripped, bayonets ready, hand grenades near by, the boys lay waiting for the word of command.

"Aleck?"

"Yes, comrade."

"Over yonder at Chestnut Hill, on the school-grounds, the flag will be floating from the top of the staff to-day."

"Yes, I know. It will be a pretty sight. I used to be ashamed to look at it. You know why. To-day I could stare at it and glory in it for hours."

"That flag at the school-house is the most beautiful American flag in the world. I never saw it but once, but it thrilled me then unspeakably. I have loved it ever since. I can think of but one other sight that would be more beautiful and thrilling."

"And what is that?"

"To see 'Old Glory' waving from the top of a flag-staff here on the soil of France, signifying that our country has taken up the cause of the Allies and thrown herself, with all her heart and might into this war."

"Wait; you will see it, comrade, you will see it. It can't be delayed for long now."

Then the order came to advance. In a storm of shrapnel, bullets and flame, the British host swept down again upon the foe. The Germans gave desperate and deadly resistance. They fought hand to hand, with bayonets and clubbed muskets and grenades. It was a death grapple, with decisive victory on neither side. In the wild onrush and terrific clash, Pen lost touch with his comrade. Only once he saw him after the charge was launched. Aleck waved to him and smiled and plunged into the thick of the carnage. Two hours later, staggering with shock and heat and superficial wounds, and choking with thirst and the smoke and dust of conflict, Pen made his way with the survivors of his section back over the ground that had been traversed, to find rest and refreshment at the rear. They had been relieved by fresh troops sent in to hold the narrow strip of territory that had been gained. Stumbling along over the torn soil, through wreckage indescribable, among dead bodies lying singly and in heaps, stopping now and then to aid a dying man, or give such comfort as he could to a wounded and helpless comrade, Pen struggled slowly and painfully toward a resting spot.

At one place, through eyes half blinded by sweat and smoke and trickling blood, he saw a man partially reclining against a post to which a tangled and broken mass of barbed wire was still clinging. The man was evidently making weak and ineffectual attempts to care for his own wounds. Pen stopped to assist him if he could. Looking down into his face he saw that it was Aleck. He was not shocked, nor did he manifest any surprise. He had seen too much of the actuality of war to be startled now by any sight or sound however terrible. He simply said:

"Well, old man, I see they got you. Here, let me help."

He knelt down by the side of his wounded comrade, and, with shaking hands, endeavored to staunch the flow of blood and to bind up two dreadful wounds, a gaping, jagged hole in the breast beneath the shoulder, made by the thrust and twist of a Boche bayonet, and a torn and shattered knee.

Aleck did not at first recognize him, but a moment later, seeing who it was that had stopped to help him, he reached up a trembling hand and laid it on his friend's face. Something in his mouth or throat had gone wrong and he could not speak.

After exhausting his comrade's emergency kit and his own in first aid treatment of the wounds, Pen called for assistance to a soldier who was staggering by, and between them, across the torn field with its crimson and ghastly fruitage, with fragments of shrapnel hurtling above them, and with bodies of soldiers, dead and living, tossed into the murky air by constantly exploding shells, they half carried, half dragged the wounded man across the ravine and up the hill to a captured German trench, and turned him over to the stretcher-bearers to be taken to the ambulances.

It was after this day's fighting that Pen, "for conspicuous bravery in action," was promoted to the rank of sergeant. He wore his honor modestly. It gave him, perhaps, a better opportunity to do good work for Britain and for France, and to rehabilitate himself in the eyes of his own countrymen; otherwise it did not matter.

So the fighting on the Somme went on day after day, week after week, persistent, desperate, bloody. It was early in August, after the terrific battle by which the whole of Delville Wood passed into British control, that Pen's battalion was relieved and sent far to the rear for a long rest. Even unwounded men cannot stand the strain of continuous battle for many weeks at a stretch. The nervous system, delicate and complicated, must have relief, or the physical organization will collapse, or the mind give way, or both.

At the end of the first night's march from the front the battalion camped in the streets of a little, half-wrecked village on the banks of the Avre. Up on the hillside was a long, rambling building which had once been a convent but was now a hospital. Pen knew that somewhere in a hospital back of the Somme Aleck was still lying, too ill to be moved farther to the rear. It occurred to him that he might find him here. So, in the hazy moonlight of the August evening, having obtained the necessary leave, he set out to make inquiry. He passed up the winding walk, under a canopy of fine old trees, and reached the entrance to the building. From the porch, looking to the north, toward the valley of the Somme, he could see on the horizon the dull gleam of red that marked the battle line, and he could hear the faint reverberations of the big guns that told of the fighting still in progress. But here it was very quiet, very peaceful, very beautiful. For the first time since his entrance into the great struggle he longed for an end of the strife, and a return to the calm, sweet, lovely things of life. But he did not permit this mood to remain long with him. He knew that the war must go on until the spirit that launched it was subdued and crushed, and that he must go with it to whatever end God might will.

He found Aleck there. He had felt that he would, and while he was delighted he was not greatly surprised. There was little emotion manifested at the meeting of the two boys. The horrors of war were too close and too vivid yet for that. But the fact that they were glad to look again into one another's eyes admitted of no doubt. Aleck had recovered the use of his voice, but he was still too weak to talk at any length. The bayonet wound in his shoulder had healed nicely, but his shattered knee had come terribly near to costing him his life. There had been infection. Amputation of the leg had been imminent. The surgeons and the nurses had struggled with the case for weeks and had finally conquered.

"I shall still have two legs," said Aleck jocosely, "and I'll be glad of that; but I'm afraid this one will be a weak brother for a long time. I won't be kicking football this fall, anyway."

"It's the fortune of war," replied Pen.

"I know. I'm not complaining, and I'm not sorry. I've had my chance. I've seen war. I've fought for France. I'm satisfied."

He lay back on the pillow, pale-faced, emaciated, weak; but in his eyes was a glow of patriotic pride in his own suffering, and pride in the knowledge that he had entered the fight and had fought bravely and well.

"America ought to be proud of you," said Pen, "and of all the other boys from the States who have fought and suffered, and of those who have died in this war. I told you you'd be no coward when the time came to fight, and, my faith! you were not. I can see you now, with a smile and a wave of the hand plunging into that bloody chaos."

"Thank you, comrade! I may never fight again, but I can go back home now and face the flag and not be ashamed."

"Indeed, you can! And when will you go?"

"I don't know. They'll take me across the channel as soon as I'm able to leave here, and then, when I can travel comfortably I suppose I'll be invalided home."

"Well, old man, when you get there, you say to my mother and my aunt Milly, and my dear old grandfather Butler, that when you saw me last I was well, and contented, and glad to be doing my bit."

"I will, Pen."

"And, Aleck?"

"Yes, comrade."

"If you should chance to go by the school-house, and see the old flag waving there, give it one loving glance for me, will you?"

"With all my heart!"

"So, then, good-by!"

"Good-by!"

It was in the spacious grounds of an old French chateau not far from Beauvais on the river Andelle that Pen's battalion camped for their period of rest and recuperation. There were long, sunshiny days, nights of undisturbed and refreshing sleep, recreation and entertainment sufficient to divert tired brains, and a freedom from undue restraint that was most welcome. Moreover there were letters and parcels from home, with plenty of time to read them and to re-read them, to dwell upon them and to enjoy them. If the loved ones back in the quiet cities and villages and countryside could only realize how much letters and parcels from home mean to the tired bodies and strained nerves of the war-worn boys at the front, there would never be a lack of these comforts and enjoyments that go farther than anything else to brighten the lives and hearten the spirits of the soldier-heroes in the trenches and the camps.

Pen had his full share of these pleasures. His mother, his Aunt Millicent, Colonel Butler, and even Grandpa Walker from Cobb's Corners, kept him supplied with news, admonition, encouragement and affection. And these little waves of love and commendation, rolling up to him at irregular intervals, were like sweet and fragrant draughts of life-giving air to one who for months had breathed only the smoke of battle and the foulness of the trenches.