"I'll call you," said Neil Fraser, "and I'll raise you one."

"I'm willing to meet Mr. Duff and Mr. Fraser," said Miss Quigg, rising from behind her organ with a triumphant smile on her face.

"I ain't got much money," said Harry Hobbs, "but I'll go you just half what I earn if you'll meet me on that proposition."

"Ah may say," said Mr. Innes, yielding to his wife's vigorous vocal and physical incitations, "A'm prepair-r-ed to mak' a substantial increase in my subscreeption—that is, if necessary," he added cautiously.

Then Barry came forward from the back of the church and stood before the platform. After looking them over for a few moments in silence, he said, in a voice clear, quiet, but with a ring in it that made it echo in every heart:

"Had it not been for these last speeches, it would have been unnecessary to allow the motion to go before you. I could not have remained where I am not wanted. But now I am puzzled, I confess, I am really puzzled to know what to do. I am not a great preacher, I know, but then there are worse. I don't, at least I think I don't, talk nonsense. And I am not what Mr. McFettridge calls a 'good mixer.' On the other hand, I think Mr. Innes is right when he says the bairns like me; at least, it would break"—he paused, his lip quivering, then he went on quietly—"it would be very hard to think they didn't."

"They do that, then," said Mrs. Innes, emphatically.

"So you see, it is really very difficult to know what to do. I would hate to go away, but it might be right to go away. I suggest you let me have a week to think it over. Can you wait that long?"

His handsome, boyish face, alight with a fine glow of earnestness and sincerity, made irresistible appeal to all but those who for personal reasons were opposed to him.

"You see," he continued, in a tone of voice deliberative and quite detached, "there are a number of things to think about. Those arrears, for instance, are hardly my fault—at least, not altogether. I was looking over the treasurer's books the other day, and I was surprised to find how many had apparently quite forgotten to pay their church subscription. It is no doubt just an oversight. For instance," he added, in the confidential tone of one imparting interesting and valuable information, "you will be surprised to learn, Mr. Duff, that you are twenty-five dollars behind in your payments."

At this Neil Fraser threw back his head with a loud laugh. "Touche!" he said, in a joyous undertone.

The minister looked at him in surprise, and went on, "And while Mr. Innes and Miss Quigg are both paid up in full, Mr. Hayes has apparently neglected to pay his last quarter."

"Hit him again," murmured Harry Hobbs, while Mr. Hayes rose in virtuous indignation.

"I protest, Mr. Chairman!" he cried, "against these personalities."

"Oh, you quite mistake me, Mr. Hayes," said the preacher, "these are not personalities. I am simply showing how easy it is for arrears to arise, and that it may not be my fault at all. Of course, it may be right for me to resign. I don't know about that yet, but I want to be very sure. It would be easier to resign, but I don't want to be a quitter."

"I move we adjourn," said Neil Fraser.

"I second the motion," said Stewart Duff. The motion was carried, and the meeting adjourned.

At the door the minister stood shaking hands with all as they passed out, making no distinction in the heartiness with which he greeted all his parishioners. To Miss Quigg, however, he said, "Thank you. You were splendidly plucky."

"Nonsense!" cried the little lady, the colour flaming in her faded cheeks. "But," she added hastily, "you did that beautifully, and he deserved it, the little beast!"

"Solar plexus!" said Neil Fraser, who was immediately behind Miss Quigg.

The minister glanced from one to the other in perplexity, as they passed out of the door.

"But, you know, I was only—"

"Oh, yes, we know," cried Miss Quigg. "But if those men would only take hold! Oh, those men!" She turned upon Neil Fraser and shook her head at him violently.

"I know, Miss Quigg. We are a hopeless and helpless lot. But we're going to reform."

"You need to, badly," she said. "But you need some one to reform you. Look at Mr. Duff there, how vastly improved he is," and she waved her hand to that gentleman, who was driving away with his wife in their buckboard.

"He is a perfect dear," sighed Mrs. Duff, as she bowed to the minister. "And you, too, Stewart," she added, giving his arm a little squeeze, "you said just the right thing when those horrid people were going to turn him out."

"Say! Your preacher isn't so bad after all," said her husband. "Wasn't that a neat one for old Hayes?"

"He rather got you, though, Stewart."

"Yes, he did, by Jove! Not the first time, either, he's done it. But I must look after that. Say, he's the limit for freshness though. Or is it freshness? I'm not quite sure."

"Will he stay with us?" said his wife. "I really do hope he will."

"Guess he'll stay all right. He won't give up his job," said her husband.

But next week proved Mr. Duff a poor prophet, for the minister after the service informed his people that he had come to the conclusion that another man might get better results as minister of the congregation; he had therefore handed in his resignation to the Presbytery.

It was a shock to them all, but he adhered to his resolution in spite of tearful lamentations from the women, wide-eyed amazement and dismay from the bairns of the congregation, and indignation, loudly expressed, from Neil Fraser and Stewart Duff, and others of their kind.

"Well," said Miss Quigg, struggling with indignant tears, as she was passing out of the church, "you won't see Harry Hobbs in this church again, nor me, either."

"Oh, yes, Miss Quigg, Harry has promised me that he will stick by the church, and that he will be there every Sunday. And so will you, dear Miss Quigg. I know you. You will do what is right."

But that little lady, with her head very erect and a red spot burning in each faded cheek, passed out of the church saying nothing, the plumes on her jaunty little hat quivering defiance and wrath against "those men, who had so little spunk as to allow a little beast like Hayes to run them."



CHAPTER V

THE WAR DRUM CALLS

"Well, dad," said Barry next evening as they were sitting in the garden after tea, "I feel something like Mohammed's coffin, detached from earth but not yet ascended into heaven. It's unpleasant to be out of a job. I confess I shall always cherish a more intelligent sympathy henceforth for the great unemployed. But cheer up, dad! You are taking this thing much too seriously. The world is wide, and there is something waiting me that I can do better than any one else."

But the father had little to say. He felt bitterly the humiliation to which his son had been subjected.

Barry refused to see the humiliation.

"Why should I not resign if I decide it is my duty so to do? And why, on the other hand, should not they have the right to terminate my engagement with them when they so desire? That's democratic government."

"But good Lord, Barry!" burst out his father, with quite an unusual display of feeling; "to think that a gentleman should hold his position at the whim of such whippersnappers as Hayes, Boggs et hoc genus omne. And more than that, that I should have to accept as my minister a man who would be the choice of cattle like that."

"After all, dad, we are ruled by majorities in this age and in this country. That is at once the glory and the danger of democratic government. There is no better way discovered as yet. And besides, I couldn't go on here, dad, preaching Sunday after Sunday to people who I felt were all the time saying, 'He's no good'; to people, in short, who could not profit by my preaching."

"Because it had no pep, eh?" said his father with bitter scorn.

"Do you know, dad, I believe that's what is wrong with my preaching: it hasn't got pep. What pep is, only the initiated know. But the long and the short of this thing is, it is the people that must be satisfied. It is they who have to stand your preaching, they who pay the piper. But cheer up, dad, I have no fear for the future."

"Nor have I, my boy, not the slightest. I hope you did not think for a moment, my son," he added with some dignity, "that I was in doubt about your future."

"No, no, dad. We both feel a little sore naturally, but the future is all right."

"True, my dear boy, true. I was forgetting myself. As you say, the world is wide and your place is waiting."

"Hello! here comes my friend, Mr. Duff," said Barry in a low voice. "He was ready to throw Mr. McFettridge out of the meeting yesterday, body and bones. Awfully funny, if it hadn't been in church. Wonder what he wants! Seems in a bit of a hurry."

But hurry or not, it was a full hour before Mr. Duff introduced his business. As he entered the garden he stood gazing about him in amazed wonder and delight, and that hour was spent in company with Mr. Dunbar, exploring the garden, Barry following behind lost in amazement at the new phase of character displayed by their visitor.

"I have not had such a delightful evening, Mr. Dunbar, for years," said Duff, when they had finished making the round of the garden. "I have heard about your garden, but I had no idea that it held such a wealth and variety of treasures. I had something of a garden myself in the old country, but here there is no time apparently for anything but cattle and horses and money. But if you would allow me I should greatly like to have the pleasure of bringing Mrs. Duff to see your beautiful garden."

Mr. Duff was assured that the Dunbars would have the greatest pleasure in receiving Mrs. Duff.

"Do bring her," said Barry, "and we can have a little music, too. She is musical, I know. I hear her sing in church."

"Music! Why, she loves it. But she dropped her music when she came here; there seemed to be no time, no time, no time. I wonder sometimes—Well, I must get at my business. It is this letter that brings me. It is from an American whom you know, at least, he knows you, a Mr. Osborne Howland of Pittsburgh."

Mr. Dunbar nodded.

"He is planning a big trip up the Peace River country prospecting for oil and mines, and later hunting. He says you and your son engaged to accompany him, and he asks me to complete arrangements with you. I am getting Jim Knight to look after the outfit. You know Jim, perhaps. He runs the Lone Pine ranch. Fine chap he is. Knows all about the hunting business. Takes a party into the mountains every year. He'll take Tom Fielding with him. I don't know Fielding, but Knight does. Mr. Howland says there will be three of their party. Far too many, but that's his business. I myself am rather anxious to look after some oil deposits, and this will be a good chance. What do you say?"

Father and son looked at each other.

"It would be fine, if we could manage it," said Mr. Dunbar, "but my work is so pressing just now. A great many are coming in, and I am alone in the office at present. When does he propose to start?"

"In six weeks' time. I hope you can come, Mr. Dunbar. I couldn't have said so yesterday, but I can now. Any man with a garden like this, the product of his own planning and working, is worth knowing. So I do hope you can both come. By the way, Knight wants a camp hand, a kind of roustabout, who can cook—a handy man, you know."

"I have him," said Barry. "Harry Hobbs."

"Hobbs? Boozes a bit, doesn't he?"

"Not now. Hasn't for six months. He's a new man. I can guarantee him."

"You can, eh? Well, my experience is once a boozer always a boozer."

"Oh," said Barry, "Hobbs is different. He is a member of our church, you know."

"No, I didn't know. But I don't know that that makes much difference anyway," said Duff with a laugh. "I don't mean to be offensive," he added.

"It does to Hobbs, he's a Christian man now. I mean a real Christian, Mr. Duff."

"Well, I suppose there is such a thing. In fact, I've known one or two, but—well, if you guarantee him I'll take him."

"I will guarantee him," said Barry.

"Let me have your answer to-morrow," said Duff as he bade them good-night.

The Dunbars discussed the matter far into the night. It was clearly impossible for Mr. Dunbar to leave his work, and the only question was whether or not Barry should make one of the party. Barry greatly disliked the idea of leaving his father during the hot summer months, as he said, "to slave away at his desk, and to slop away in his bachelor diggings." He raised many objections, but one consideration seemed to settle things for the Dunbars. To them a promise was a promise.

"If I remember aright, Barry, we promised that we should join their party on this expedition."

"Yes," added Barry quickly, "if our work permitted it."

"Exactly," said his father. "My work prevents me, your work does not."

Hence it came that by the end of August Barry found himself in the far northern wilds of the Peace River country, a hundred miles or so from Edmonton, attached to a prospecting-hunting party of which Mr. Osborne Howland was the nominal head, but of which the "boss" was undoubtedly his handsome, athletic and impetuous daughter Paula. The party had not been on the trail for more than a week before every member was moving at her command, and apparently glad to do so.

The party were camped by a rushing river at the foot of a falls. Below the falls the river made a wide eddy, then swept down in a turbulent rapid for some miles. The landing was a smooth and shelving rock that pitched somewhat steeply into the river.

The unfortunate Harry, who after the day's march had exchanged his heavy marching boots with their clinging hobnails for shoes more comfortable but with less clinging qualities, in making preparation for the evening meal made his way down this shelving rock of water. No sooner had he filled his pail than his foot slipped from under him, and in an instant the pail and himself were in the swiftly flowing river.

His cry startled the camp.

"Hello!" shouted Duff, with a great laugh. "Harry is in the drink! I never knew he was so fond of water as all that. You've got to swim for it now, old boy."

"Throw him something," said Knight.

Past them ran Barry, throwing off coat and vest.

"He can't swim," he cried, tearing at his boots. "Throw him a line, some one." He ran down to the water's edge, plunged in, and swam toward the unfortunate Harry, who, splashing wildly, was being carried rapidly into the rough water.

"Oh, father, he will be drowned!" cried Paula, rushing toward a canoe which was drawn up on the shore. Before any one could reach her she had pushed it out and was steering over the boiling current in Barry's wake. But after a few strokes of her paddle she found herself driven far out into the current and away from the struggling men. Paula had had sufficient experience with a canoe to handle it with considerable ease in smooth water and under ordinary conditions, but in the swirl of this rough and swift water the canoe took the management of its course out of her hands, and she had all she could do to keep afloat.

"For God's sake, men, get her!" cried Brand. "She will be drowned before our eyes."

"Come on, Tom," cried Jim Knight, swinging another canoe into the water. A glance he gave at the girl, another at the struggling men, for by this time Barry could be seen struggling with the drowning Hobbs.

"Get in, Tom," ordered Knight, taking the stern. "We will get the men first. The girl is all right in the meantime."

"Get the girl!" commanded Brand. "For God's sake go for the girl," he entreated in a frenzy of distress.

"No," said Knight, "the men first. She's all right."

"Here," said Duff to Brand, pushing out the remaining canoe, "get into the bow, and stop howling. Those men are in danger of being drowned, but Knight will get them. We'll go for the girl."

It took but a few minutes for Knight and Fielding, who knew their craft thoroughly and how to get the best out of her in just such an emergency, to draw up upon Harry and his rescuer.

"Say, they are fighting hard," said Fielding. "That bloody little fool is choking the life out of Dunbar. My God! they are out of sight!"

"Go on," roared Knight. "Keep your eyes on the spot, and for Heaven's sake, paddle!"

"They are up again! One of them is. It's Barry. The other is gone. No, by Jove! he's got him! Hold on, Barry, we're coming," yelled Tom. "Stick to it, old boy!"

Swiftly the canoe sped toward the drowning men.

"They are gone this time for sure," cried Tom, as the canoe shot over the spot where the men had last been seen.

"Not much!" said Knight, as reaching out of the stern he gripped Barry by the hair. "Hold hard, Barry," he said quietly. "No monkey work now or you'll drown us all." Immediately Barry ceased struggling.

"Don't try to get in, Barry. We'll have to tow you ashore."

"All right, Jim," he said between his sobbing breaths. "Only—hurry up—I've got him—here."

Knight reached down carefully, lifted Barry till his hand touched the gunwale of the canoe.

"Not too hard, Barry," he said. "I'll ease you round to the stern. Steady, boy, steady. Don't dump us."

"All right—Jim—but—he's under the water—here."

"Oh, never mind him. We'll get him all right. Can you hold on now?" said Knight.

"Yes—I think so."

"Now, for God's sake, Tom, edge her into the shore. See that little eddy there? Swing into that! You'll do it all right. Good man!"

By this time Knight was able to get Harry's head above water.

In a few minutes they had reached the shore, and were working hard over Harry's unconscious body, leaving Barry lying on the sand to recover his strength. A long fight was necessary to bring the life back into Harry, by which time Barry was sufficiently recovered to sit up.

"Stay where you are, Barry, until we get this man back to camp," ordered Knight. "We'll light a bit of a fire for you."

"I'm warm enough," said Barry.

"Warm enough? You may be, but you will be better with a fire, and you lie beside it till we get you. Don't move now."

"There's the other canoes coming," said Fielding. "They'll make shore a little lower down. They're all right. Say, she's handling that canoe like a man!"

"Who?" said Barry.

"Why, Miss Howland," said Fielding. "She was out after you like a shot. She's a plucky one!"

Barry was on his feet in an instant, watching anxiously the progress of the canoes, which were being slowly edged across the river in a long incline toward the shore.

"They'll make it, all right," said Knight, after observing them for a time. "Don't you worry. Just lie down by the fire. We'll be back in a jiffy."

In an hour they were all safely back in camp, and sufficiently recovered to discover the humorous points in the episode. But they were all familiar enough with the treacherous possibilities of rough and rapid water to know that for Hobbs and his deliverer at least, there had been some serious moments during their fierce struggle in the river.

"Another minute would have done," said Fielding to his friend, as they sat over the fire after supper.

"A half a minute would have been just as good," said Knight. "I got Barry by the hair under water. He was at his last kick, you bet! And that rat," he added, smiling good naturedly at Harry, "was dragging him down for the last time."

"I didn't know nothin' about it," said poor Harry, who was lying stretched out by the fire, still very weak and miserable. "I didn't know nothin' about it, or you bet I woudn't ha' done it. I didn't know nothin' after he got me."

"After you got him, you mean," said Fielding.

"I guess that's right," said Harry, "but I wouldn't ha' got him if he hadn't ha' got me first."

They all joined in the discussion of the event except Paula, who sat distrait and silent, gazing into the fire, and Barry, who lay, drowsy and relaxed, on a blanket not far from her side.

"You ought to go to bed," said Paula at length in a low voice to him. "You need a good night's sleep."

"I'm too tired to sleep," said Barry. "I feel rather rotten, in fact. I ought to feel very grateful, but somehow I just feel rotten."

"Can one be grateful and feel rotten at the same time?" said Paula, making talk.

"Behold me," replied Barry. "I know I am grateful, but I do feel rotten. I don't think I have even thanked you for risking your life for me," he added, turning toward her.

"Risking my life? Nonsense! I paddled 'round in the canoe for a bit, till two strong men came to tow me in, and would have, if I had allowed them. Thank the boys, who got you in time." She shuddered as she spoke.

"I do thank them, and I do feel grateful to them," said Barry. "It was rather a near thing. You see, I let him grip me. I choked him off my arms, but he slid down to my thigh, and I could not kick him off. Had to practically drown him. Even then he hung on."

"Oh, don't speak about it," she said with a shudder, covering her face with her hands. "It was too awful, and it might have been the end of you." Her voice broke a little.

"No, not an end," answered Barry, in a quiet voice. "Not the end by a long way, not by a very long way."

"What do you mean? Oh, you are thinking of immortality, and all that," said Paula. "It's a chilly, ghostly subject. It makes me shiver. I get little comfort out of it."

"Ghostly it is, if you mean a thing of spirits," said Barry, "but chilly! Why chilly?" Then he added to himself in an undertone: "I wonder! I wonder! I wish sometimes I knew more."

"Sometimes?" cried Paula. "Always!" she added passionately. "It's a dreadful business to me. To be suddenly snatched out of the light and the warmth, away from the touch of warm fingers and the sight of dear faces! Ah, I dread it! I loathe the thought of it. I hate it!"

"And yet," mused Barry, "somehow I cannot forget that out there somewhere there is One, kindly, genial, true,—like my dad. How good he has been to me—my dad, I mean, and that Other, too, has been good. Somehow I think of them together. Yes, I am grateful to Him."

"Oh, God, you mean," said Paula, a little impatiently.

"Yes, to God. He saved me to-day. 'Saved,' I say. It is a queer way to speak, after all. What I really ought to say is that God thought it best that I should camp 'round here for a bit longer before moving in nearer."

"Nearer?"

"Yes, into the nearer circle. Life moves 'round a centre, in outer and inner circles. This is the outer circle. Nearer in there, it is kindlier, with better light and clearer vision. 'We shall know even as we are known.'" Barry mused on, as if communing with himself.

"But when you move in," said Paula, and there was no mistaking the earnestness of her tone, "you break touch with those you love here."

"I don't know about that," answered Barry quickly.

"Oh, yes you do. You are out of all this,—all this," she swept her hand at the world around her, "this good old world, all your joy and happiness, all you love. Oh, that's the worst of it; you give up your love. I hate it!" she concluded with vehemence sudden and fierce, as she shook her fist towards the stars.

"Give up your love?" said Barry. "Not I! Not one good, honest affection do I mean to give up, nor shall I."

"Oh, nonsense! Don't be religious. Just be honest," said Paula, in a low, intense voice. "Let me speak to you. Suppose I—I love a man with all my soul and body—and body, mind you, and he goes out, or goes in, as you say. No matter, he goes out of my life. I lose him, he is not here. I cannot feel and respond to his love. I cannot feel his strong arms about me. My God!" Her voice came with increasing vehemence. "I want his arms. I want him as he is. I want his body—I cannot love a ghost. No! no!" she added in a low, hopeless voice. "When he goes out I lose him, and lose him as mine forever. Oh, what do I care for your spirit love! The old Greeks were right. They are shades—shades, mere shades beyond the river. I don't want a shade. I want a man, a strong, warm-hearted, brave man. Yes, a good man, a man with a soul. But a MAN, not a SOUL. My God!" she moaned, "how terrible it all is! And it came so near to us to-day. But I should not be saying this to you, played out as you are. I am going to bed. Good-night."

She put out her hand and gripped his in warm, strong, muscular fingers. "Thank God, yes God, if you like, you are still—still in this outer circle,"—she broke into a laugh, but there was little mirth in her laughter—"this good old outer circle, yet awhile."

"Yes," said Barry simply but very earnestly, "thank God. It is a good world. But with all my soul I believe there is a better, and all that is best in love and life we shall take with us. Good-night," he added, "and thank you, at least for the will and the attempt to save my life."

"Sleep well," she said.

"I hope so," he replied, "but I doubt it."

His doubts, it turned out, were justified, for soon after midnight Mr. Howland was aroused by Harry Hobbs in a terror of excitement.

"Will you come to Mr. Dunbar, sir?" he cried. "I think he is dying."

"Dying?" Mr. Howland was out of his cot immediately and at Barry's side. He found him fighting for breath, his eyes starting from his head, a look of infinite distress on his face.

"My dear boy, what is it? Hobbs says you are dying."

"That con-con-founded—fool—shouldn't have—called you. I forbade—him," gasped Barry.

"But, my dear boy, what is the matter? Are you in pain?"

"No, no,—it's—nothing—only an old—friend come back—for a call,—a brief one—let us—hope. It's only asthma. Looks bad—feels worse—but really—not at all dangerous."

"What can be done, my boy?" asked Mr. Howland, greatly relieved, as are most laymen, when the trouble can be named. It is upon the terror inspired by the unknown that the medical profession lives.

"Tell Harry—to make—a hot drink," said Barry, but Harry had already forestalled the request, and appeared with a steaming bowl. "This will—help. Now—go to—bed, Mr. Howland. Do, please.—You distress—me by remaining—there. Harry will—look after me. Good-night."

Next morning Barry appeared at breakfast a little washed out in appearance, but quite bright and announcing himself fit for anything.

The incident, however, was a determining factor in changing the party's plans. Already they were behind their time schedule, to Mr. Cornwall Brand's disgust. The party was too large and too heavily encumbered with impedimenta for swift travel. Besides, as Paula said, "Why rush? Are we not doing the Peace River Country? We are out for a good time and we are having it." Paula was not interested in mines and oil. She did not announce just what special interest was hers. She was "having a good time" and that was reason enough for leisurely travel. In consequence their provisions had run low.

It was decided to send forward a scouting party to the Hudson's Bay Post some thirty miles further on to restock their commissariat. Accordingly Knight and Fielding were despatched on this mission, the rest of the party remaining in camp.

"A lazy day or two in camp is what we all need," said Mr. Howland. "I confess I am quite used up myself, and therefore I know you must all feel much the same."

On the fourth day the scouting party appeared.

"There's war!" cried Knight as he touched land. He flung out a bundle of papers for Mr. Howland.

"War!" The word came back in tones as varied as those who uttered it.

"War!" said Mr. Howland. "Between whom?"

"Every one, pretty much," said Knight. "Germany, France, Russia, Austria, Servia, Belgium, and Britain."

"Britain!" said Barry and Duff at the same moment.

"Britain," answered Knight solemnly.

The men stood stock still, looking at each other with awed faces.

"War!" again said Barry. "With Germany!" He turned abruptly away from the group and said, "I am going."

"Going! Going where?" said Mr. Howland.

"To the war," said Barry quietly.

"To the war! You? A clergyman?" said Mr. Howland.

"You? You going?" cried Paula. At the pain in her voice her father and Brand turned and looked at her. Disturbed by what he saw, her father began an excited appeal to Barry.

"Why, my dear sir, it would surely be most unusual for a man like you to go to war," he began, and for quite ten minutes he proceeded to set forth in fluent and excited speech a number of reasons why the idea of Barry's going to war was absurd and preposterous to him. It must be confessed that Barry was the only one of the men who appeared to give much heed to him. They seemed to be dazed by the stupendous fact that had been announced to them, and to be adjusting themselves to that fact.

When he had finished his lengthy and excited speech Brand took up the discourse.

"Of course you don't think of going immediately," he said. "We have this expedition in hand."

The men made no reply. Indeed, they hardly seemed to hear him.

"You don't mean to say," continued Brand with a touch of indignation in his voice, addressing Duff, the recognised leader of the party, "that you would break your engagement with this party, Mr. Duff?"

Duff glanced at him, then looked away in silence, studying the horizon. The world was to him and to them all a new world within the last few minutes.

His silence appeared to enrage Brand. He turned to Barry.

"Do you mean to tell me, sir, that you approve of this? Do you consider it right and fair that these men should break their engagement with us? We have gone to great expense, we have extremely important interests at stake in this exploration."

Barry stood looking at him in silence, as if trying to take in exactly what he meant, then in a low and awed tone he said:

"It is war! War with Germany!"

"We cannot help that," cried Brand. "What difference can this war make to you here a hundred miles from civilisation? These men are pledged to us."

"Their first pledge is to their country, sir," said Barry gravely.

"But why should you, a Canadian, take part in this war?" argued Mr. Howland. "Surely this is England's war."

Then Barry appeared to awake as from a dream.

"Yes, it is England's war, it is Britain's war, and when Britain is at war my country is at war, and when my country is at war I ought to be there."

"God in heaven!" shouted Duff, striking him on the back, "you have said it! My country is at war, and I must be there. As God hears me, I am off to-day—now."

"Me, too!" said Knight with a shout.

"I'm going with you, sir," said little Harry Hobbs, ranging himself beside Barry.

"Count me in," said Tom Fielding quietly. "I have a wife and three kids, but—"

"My God!" gasped Duff. "My wife." His face went white. He had not yet fully adjusted himself to the fact of war.

"Why, of course," said Mr. Howland, "you married men won't be called upon. You must be reasonable. For instance you, Mr. Duff, cannot leave your wife."

But Duff had recovered himself.

"My wife, sir? My wife would despise me if I stayed up here. Sir, my wife will buckle on my belt and spurs and send me off to the war," cried Duff in a voice that shook as he spoke.

With a single stride Barry was at his side, offering both his hands.

"Thank God for men like you! And in my soul I believe the Empire has millions of them."

"Does your Empire demand that you desert those you have pledged yourself to?" enquired Brand in a sneering tone.

"Oh, Cornwall!" exclaimed Paula, "how can you?"

"Why, Brand," said Mr. Howland, "that is unworthy of you."

"We will see you into safety, sir," said Duff, swinging round upon Brand, "either to the Hudson's Bay Company's post, where you can get Indians, or back to Edmonton, but not one step further on this expedition do I go."

"Nor I," said Knight.

"Nor I," said Fielding.

"Nor I," said Barry.

"Nor I," said Harry Hobbs.

"You are quite right, sir," said Mr. Howland, turning to Barry. "I apologise to you, sir, to all of you Canadians. I am ashamed to confess that I did not at first get the full meaning of this terrific thing that has befallen your Empire. Were it the U.S.A. that was in a war of this kind, hell itself would not keep me from going to her aid. Nor you either, Brand. Yes, you are right. Go to your war. God go with you."

He shook hands solemnly with them one by one. "I only wish to God that my country were with you, too, in this thing," he said when he had performed this function.

"Father," cried Paula, "do you think for one minute that Uncle Sam won't be in this? You put it down," she said, swinging 'round upon Barry, "where it will jump at you some day: We will be with you in this scrap for all we are worth."

"And now for the march," said Barry, who seemed almost to assume command. Then removing his hat and lifting high his hand, he said in a voice thrilling with solemn reverence, "God grant victory to the right! God save the king!"

Instinctively the men took off their hats and stood with bared and bent heads, as if sharing in a solemn ritual. They stood with millions upon millions of their kin in the old mother lands, and scattered wide upon the seas, stood with many millions more of peoples and nations, pledging to this same cause of right, life and love and all they held dear, and with hearts open to that all-searching eye, praying that same prayer, "God grant victory to the right. Amen and amen. We ask no other."

Then they faced to their hundred miles' trek en route to the war.



CHAPTER VI

THE MEN OF THE NORTH

"Fifty miles—not too bad, boy, not too bad for a one day's go. We'll camp right here at the portage. How is it, Knight?"

"Good place, Duff, right on that point. Good wood, good landing. Besides there's a deuce of a portage beyond, which we can do after supper to-night. How do you feel, Barry?" asked Knight. "Hard day, eh?"

"Feeling fit, a little tired, of course, but good for another ten miles," answered Barry.

"That's the stuff," replied Knight, looking at him keenly, "but, see here, you must ease up on the carrying. You haven't quite got over that ducking of yours."

"I'm fit enough," answered Barry, rather more curtly than his wont.

They brought the canoes up to the landing, and with the speed of long practice unloaded them, and drew them upon the shore.

Knight approached Duff, and, pointing toward Barry, said quietly:

"I guess we'll have to ease him up a bit. That fight, you know, took it out of him, and he always jumps for the biggest pack. We'd better hold him back to-morrow a bit."

"Can't hold back any one," said Duff, with an oath. "We've got to make it to-morrow night. There's the devil of a trip before us. That big marsh portage is a heartbreaker, and there must be a dozen or fifteen of them awaiting us, and we're going to get through—at least, I am."

"All right," said Knight, with a quick flash of temper. "I'll stay with you, only I thought we might ease him a bit."

"I'm telling you, we're going to get through," said Duff, with another oath.

"You needn't tell me, Duff," said Knight. "Keep your shirt on."

"On or off, wet or dry, sink or swim, we're going to make that train to-morrow, Knight. That's all about it."

Then Knight let himself go.

"See here, Duff. Do you want to go on to-night? If you do, hell and blazes, say the word and I'm with you."

His face was white as he spoke. He seized a tump-line, swung the pack upon his head, and set off across the portage.

"Come on, boys," he yelled. "We're going through to-night."

"Oh, hold up, Knight!" said Duff. "What the hell's eating you? We'll grub first anyway."

"No," said Knight. "The next rapid is a bad bit of water, and if we're going through to-night, I want that bit behind me, before it gets too dark. So come along!"

"Oh, cut it out, Knight," said Duff, in a gruff but conciliatory tone. "We'll camp right here."

"It's all the same to me," said Knight, flinging his pack down. "When you want to go on, say the word. You won't have to ask me twice."

Duff looked over the six feet of bone and sinew and muscle of the young rancher, made as if to answer, paused a moment, changed his mind, and said more quietly:

"Don't be an ass, Knight. I'm not trying to hang your shirt on a tree."

"You know damned well you can't," said Knight, who was still white with passion.

"Oh, come off," replied Duff. "Anyway, I don't see what young Dunbar is to you. We must get through to-morrow night. The overseas contingent is camping at Valcartier, according to these papers and whatever happens I am going with that contingent."

Knight made no reply. He was a little ashamed of his temper. But during the past two days he had chafed under the rasp of Duff's tongue and his overbearing manner. He resented too his total disregard of Barry's weariness, for in spite of his sheer grit, the pace was wearing the boy down.

"We ought to reach the railroad by six to-morrow," said Duff, renewing the conversation, and anxious to appease his comrade. "There's a late train, but if we catch the six we shall make home in good time. Hello, what's this coming?"

At his words they all turned and looked in the direction in which he pointed.

Down a stream, which at this point came tumbling into theirs in a dangerous looking rapid, came a canoe with a man in the centre guiding it as only an expert could.

"By Jove! He can't make that drop," said Knight, walking down toward the landing.

They all stood watching the canoe which, at the moment, hung poised upon the brink of the rapid like a bird for flight. Even as Knight spoke the canoe entered the first smooth pitch at the top. Two long, swallow-like sweeps, then she plunged into the foam, to appear a moment later fighting her way through the mass of crowding, crested waves, which, like white-fanged wolves upon a doe, seemed to be hurling themselves upon her, intent upon bearing her down to destruction.

"By the living, jumping Jemima!" said Fielding, in an awe-stricken tone, "she's gone!"

"She's through!" cried Knight.

"Great Jehoshaphat!" said Fielding. "He's a bird!"

With a flip or two of his paddle, the stranger shot his canoe across the stream, and floated quietly to the landing.

Barry ran down to meet him.

"I say, that was beautifully done," he cried, taking the nose of the canoe while the man stepped ashore and stood a moment looking back at the water.

"A leetle more to the left would have been better, I think. She took some water," he remarked in a slow voice, as if to himself.

He was a strange-looking creature. He might have stepped out of one of Fenimore Cooper's novels. Indeed, as Barry's eyes travelled up and down his long, bony, stooping, slouching figure, his mind leaped at once to the Pathfinder.

"Come far?" asked Duff, approaching the stranger.

"Quite a bit," he answered, in a quiet, courteous voice, pausing a moment in his work.

"Going out?" enquired Duff.

"Not yet," he said. "Going up the country first to The Post."

"Ah, we have just come down from there," said Duff. "We started yesterday morning," he added, evidently hoping to surprise the man.

"Yes," he answered in a quiet tone of approval. "Nice little run! Nice little run! Bit of a hurry, I guess," he ventured apologetically.

"You bet your life, we just are. This damned war makes a man feel like as if the devil was after him," said Duff.

"War!" The man looked blankly at him. "Who's fightin'?"

"Why, haven't you heard? It's been going on for a month. We heard only three days ago as we were going further up the country. It knocked our plans endways, and here we are chasing ourselves to get out."

"War!" said the man again. "Who's fightin'? Uncle Sam after them Mexicans?"

"No. Mexicans, hell!" exclaimed Duff. "Germany and Britain."

"Britain!" The slouching shoulders lost their droop. "Britain!" he said, straightening himself up. "What's she been doin' to Germany?"

"What's Germany been doing to her, and to Belgium, and to Servia, and to France?" answered Duff, in a wrathful voice. "She's been raising hell all around. You haven't seen the papers, eh? I have them all here."

The stranger seemed dazed by the news. He made no reply, but getting out his frying-pan and tea-pail, his only utensils, he set about preparing his evening meal.

"I say," said Duff, "won't you eat with us? We're just about ready. We'll be glad to have you."

The man hesitated a perceptible moment. In the wilds men do not always accept invitations to eat. Food is sometimes worth more than its weight in gold.

"I guess I will, if you've lots of stuff," he said at length.

"We've lots of grub, and we expect to be home by tomorrow night anyway, if things go all right. You are very welcome."

The man laid down his frying-pan and tea-pail, and walked with Duff toward his camp.

"Are you goin'?" he enquired.

"Going?"

"To the war. Guess some of our Canadian boys will be goin' likely, eh?"

"Going," cried Duff. "You bet your life I'm going. But, come on. We'll talk as we eat. And we can't stay long, either."

Duff introduced the party.

"My name's McCuaig," said the stranger.

"Scotch, I guess?" enquired Duff.

"My father came out with The Company. I was born up north. Never been much out, but I read the papers," he added quickly, as if to correct any misapprehension as to his knowledge of the world and its affairs. "My father always got the Times and the Spectator, and I've continued the habit."

"Any one who reads the Times and the Spectator," said Barry, "can claim to be a fairly well-read man. My father takes the Spectator, too."

As they sat down to supper, he noticed that McCuaig took off his old grey felt and crossed himself before beginning toast.

As a matter of courtesy, Barry had always been asked to say grace before meals while with the Howland party. This custom, however, had been discontinued upon this trip. They had no time for meals. They had "just grabbed their grub and run," as Harry Hobbs said.

While they ate, Duff kept a full tide of conversation going in regard to the causes of the war and its progress, as reported in the papers. Barry noticed that McCuaig's comments, though few, revealed a unique knowledge of European political affairs during the last quarter of a century. He noticed too that his manners at the table were those of a gentleman.

After supper they packed their stuff over the long portage, leaving their tent and sleeping gear, with their food, however, to be taken in the morning. For a long time they sat over the fire, Barry reading, for McCuaig's benefit, the newspaper accounts of the Belgian atrocities, the story of the smashing drive of the German hosts, and the retreat of the British army from Mons.

"What," exclaimed McCuaig, "the British soldiers goin' back! Runnin' away from them Germans!"

"Well, the Germans are only about ten to one, not only in men but in guns, and in this war it's guns that count. Guns can wipe out an army of heroes as easily as an army of cowards," said Duff.

"And them women and children," said McCuaig. "Are they killing them still?"

"You're just right, they are," replied Duff, "and will till we stop them."

McCuaig's eyes were glowing with a deep inner light. They were wonderful eyes, quick, darting, straight-looking and fearless, the eyes of a man who owes his life to his vigilance and his courage.

Before turning in for the night, Barry went to the river's edge, and stood looking up at the stars holding their steadfast watch over the turbulent and tossing waters below.

"Quiet, ain't they?" said a voice at his shoulder.

"Why, you startled me, Mr. McCuaig; I never heard you step."

McCuaig laughed his quiet laugh.

"Got to move quietly in this country," he said, "if you are going to keep alive."

A moment or so he stood by Barry's side, looking up with him at the stars.

"No fuss, up there," he said, interpreting Barry's mood and attitude. "Not like that there pitchin', tossin', threatenin' water."

"No," said Barry, "but though they look quiet, I suppose if we could really see, there is a most terrific whirling of millions of stars up there, going at the rate of thousands of miles a minute."

"Millions of 'em, and all whirlin' about," said McCuaig in an awe-stricken voice. "It's a wonder they don't hit."

"They don't hit because they each keep their own orbit," said Barry, "and they obey the laws of their existence."

"Orbut," enquired McCuaig. "What's that?"

"The trail that each star follows," said Barry.

"I see," said McCuaig, "each one keeps its own trail, its own orbut, and so there's peace up there. And I guess there'd be peace down here if folks did the same thing. It's when a man gets out of his own orbut and into another fellow's that the scrap begins. I guess that's where Germany's got wrong."

"Something like that," replied Barry.

"And sometimes," continued McCuaig, his eyes upon the stars, "when a little one comes up against a big one, he gets busted, eh?"

Barry nodded.

"And a big one, when he comes up against a bigger one gets pretty badly jarred, eh?"

"I suppose so," said Barry.

"That's what's goin' to happen to Germany," said McCuaig.

"Germany's a very powerful nation," said Barry. "The most powerful military nation in the world."

"What!" said McCuaig. "Bigger than Britain?"

"Britain has two or three hundred thousand men in her army; Germany has seven millions or more, with seventy millions of people behind them, organised for war. Of course, Britain has her navy, but then Germany has the next biggest in the world. Oh, it's going to be a terrific war."

"I say," said McCuaig, putting his hand on Barry's shoulder. "You don't think it will bother us any to lick her?"

"It will be the most terrible of all Britain's wars," replied Barry. "It will take every ounce of Britain's strength."

"You don't tell me!" exclaimed McCuaig, as if struck by an entirely new idea. "Say, are you really anxious, young man?"

"I am terribly anxious," replied Barry. "I know Germany a little. I spent a year there. She is a mighty nation, and she is ready for war."

"She is, eh!" replied McCuaig thoughtfully. He wandered off to the fire without further word, where, rolling himself in his blanket and scorning the place in the tent offered him by Duff, he made himself comfortable for the night.

At the break of day Duff was awakened by the smell of something frying. Over the fire bent McCuaig, busy preparing a breakfast of tea, bacon and bannocks, together with thick slices of fat pork.

Breakfast was eaten in haste. The day's work was before them, and there was no time for talk. In a very few minutes they stood ready for their trip across the portage.

With them stood McCuaig. His blanket roll containing his grub, with frying-pan and tea-pail attached, lay at his feet; his rifle beside it.

For a moment or two he stood looking back up the stream by which, last night, he had come. Then he began tying his paddles to the canoe thwarts in preparation for packing it across the portage.

As he was tying on the second paddle, Duff's eye fell on him.

"What's up, McCuaig?" he said. "Aren't you going up to the Post?"

"No, I guess I ain't goin' up no more," replied McCuaig slowly.

"What do you mean? You aren't going back home?"

"No. My old shack will do without me for a while, I guess.—Say," he continued, facing around upon Duff and looking him squarely in the face, "this young chap says"—putting his hand upon Barry's shoulder—"Britain is going to have a hell of a time licking Germany back into her own orbut. Them papers said last night that Canada was going in strong. Do you think she could use a fellow like me?"

A silence fell upon the group of men.

"What! Do you mean it, McCuaig?" said Duff at length.

The man turned his thin, eagle face toward the speaker, a light in his eyes.

"Why, ain't you goin'? Ain't every one goin' that can? If a fellow stood on one side while his country was fightin', where would he live when it's all over? He read out of the papers that them Germans were shootin' women and children. So—" his face began to work, "am I goin' to stand by and ask some one else to make 'em quit? No, by God!"

The men stood watching his face, curiously twisted and quivering. Then without a word Duff seized his pack, and swung into the trail, every man following him in his order. Without pausing, except for a brief half hour at noon, and another later in the day for eating, they pressed the trail, running what rapids they could and portaging the others, until in the early evening they saw, far away, a dirty blur on the skyline.

"Hurrah!" yelled Fielding. "Good old firebus, waiting for us."

"Somebody run ahead and hold her," said Duff.

Barry flung his pack down and started away.

"Come back here, Barry," cried Knight. "You're not fit. You're all in."

"That's right, too," said McCuaig. "I guess I'll go."

And off he set with the long, shuffling, tireless trot with which, for a hundred years, the "runners of the woods" have packed their loads and tracked their game in the wilds of northwestern Canada.



CHAPTER VII

BARRICADES AND BAYONETS

The city of Edmonton was in an uproar, its streets thronged with excited men, ranchers and cowboys from the ranches, lumberjacks from the foothill camps, men from the mines, trappers with lean, hard faces, in weird garb, from the north.

The news from the front was ominous. Belgium was a smoking waste. Her skies were black with the burning of her towns, villages and homesteads, her soil red with the blood of her old men, her women and children. The French armies, driven back in rout from the Belgian frontier, were being pounded to death by the German hordes. Fortresses hitherto considered impregnable were tumbling like ninepins before the terrible smashing of Austrian and German sixteen-inch guns. Already von Kluck with his four hundred thousand of conquering warriors was at the gates of Paris.

Most ominous of all, the British army, that gallant, little sacrificial army, of a scant seventy-five thousand men, holding like a bulldog to the flank of von Bulow's mighty army, fifty times as strong, threatened by von Kluck on the left flank and by von Housen on the right, was slowing down the German advance, but was itself being slowly ground into the bloody dust of the northern and eastern roads of Northern and Eastern France.

Black days these were for the men of British blood. Was the world to see something new in war? Were Germans to overcome men of the race of Nelson, and Wellington and Colin Campbell?

At home, hundreds of thousands were battering at the recruiting offices. In the Dominions of the Empire overseas it was the same. In Canada a hundred thousand men were demanding a place in the first Canadian contingent of thirty-five thousand, now almost ready to sail. General Sam at Ottawa was being snowed under by entreating, insistent, cajoling, threatening telegrams. Already northern Alberta had sent two thousand men. The rumour in Edmonton ran that there were only a few places left to be filled in the north Alberta quota. For these few places hundreds of men were fighting in the streets.

Alighting from their train, Duff and his men stood amazed, aghast, gazing upon the scene before them. Duff climbed a wagon wheel and surveyed the crowd packing the street in front of the bulletin boards.

"No use, this way, boys. We'll have to go around. Come on."

They went on. Up side streets and lanes, through back yards and shops they went until at length they emerged within a hundred yards of the recruiting office.

Duff called his men about him.

"Boys, we'll have to bluff them," he said. "You're a party of recruits that Col. Kavanagh expects. You've been sent for. I'm bringing you in under orders. Look as much like soldiers as you can, and bore in like hell. Come on!"

They began to bore. At once there was an uproar, punctuated with vociferous and varied profanity.

Duff proved himself an effective leader.

"Here, let me pass," he shouted into the backs of men's heads. "I'm on duty here. I must get through to Colonel Kavanagh. Keep up there, men; keep your line! Stand back, please! Make way!"

His huge bulk, distorted face and his loud and authoritative voice startled men into temporary submission, and before they could recover themselves he and his little company of hard-boring men were through.

Twenty-five yards from the recruiting office a side rush of the crowd caught them.

"They've smashed the barricades," a boy from a telegraph pole called out.

Duff and his men fought to hold their places, but they became conscious of a steady pressure backwards.

"What's doing now, boy?" shouted Duff to the urchin clinging to the telegraph pole.

"The fusileers—they are sticking their bayonets into them."

Before the line of bayonets the crowd retreated slowly, but Duff and his company held their ground, allowing the crowd to ebb past them, until they found themselves against the line of bayonets.

"Let me through here, sergeant, with my party," said Duff. "I'm under orders of Colonel Kavanagh."

The sergeant, an old British army man, looked them over.

"Have you an order, sir—a written order, I mean?"

"No," said Duff. "I haven't, but the colonel expects us. He is waiting for me now."

"Sorry, sir," replied the sergeant, "my orders are to let no one through without a written pass."

Duff argued, stormed, threatened, swore; but to no purpose. The N. C. O. knew his job.

"Send a note in," suggested Barry in Duff's ear.

"Good idea," replied Duff, and wrote hurriedly.

"Here, take this through to your colonel," he said, passing the note to the sergeant.

Almost immediately Colonel Kavanagh came out and greeted Duff warmly.

"Where in this wide creation have you been, Duff?" he exclaimed. "I've wanted you terribly."

"Here I am now, then," answered Duff. "Six of us. We're going with you."

"It can't be done," said the colonel. "I have only twenty places left; every one promised ten times over."

"That makes it easy, Kavanagh. You can give six of them to us."

"Duff, it simply can't be done. You know I'd give it to you if I could. I've wires from Ottawa backing up a hundred applicants, actually ordering me to put them on. No! It's no use," continued the colonel, holding up his hand. "Look here, I'll give you a pointer. We have got word to-day that there's to be a second contingent. Neil Fraser is out there in your district, Wapiti, raising a company of two hundred and fifty men. We have stripped that country bare already, so he's up against it. He wants Wapiti men, he says. They are no better than any other, but he thinks they are. You get out there to-night, Duff, and get in on that thing. You will get a commission, too. Now hike! Hike! Go! Honest to God, Duff, I want you with my battalion, and if I can work it afterwards, I'll get you exchanged, but your only chance now is Wapiti. Go, for God's sake, go quick!"

"What do you say, boys?" asked Duff, wheeling upon his men.

"I say, go!" said Knight.

In this decision they all agreed.

"Go it is," said Duff. "Right about turn. Good luck, Kavanagh, damn you. I see you have got a good sergeant there."

"Who? McDowell? None better. You couldn't beat him, eh?" said the colonel with a grin.

The sergeant stood at attention, with a wooden face.

"He's the kind of man they want in the front lines," said Duff. "The devil himself couldn't break through where he is."

"That's why I have him. Good luck. Good-bye!"

Throughout the night they marched, now and then receiving a lift from a ranch wagon, and in the grey of the morning, weary, hungry, but resolute for a place in the Wapiti company, they made the village.

Early as it was, Barry found his father astir, with breakfast in readiness.

"Hello, boy!" cried his father running to him with outstretched hands.

"Hello, dad!" answered Barry. His father threw a searching glance over his son's face as he shook his hand warmly.

"Not a word, Barry, until you eat. Not a word. Go get ready for your bath. I'll have it for you in a minute. No, not one word. Quick. March. That is the only word these days. As you eat I'll give you the news."

Resolutely he refused to talk until he saw his son begin upon his breakfast. Then he poured forth a stream of news. The whole country was aflame with war enthusiasm. Alberta had offered half a million bushels of oats for the imperial army, and a thousand horses or more. The Calgary district had recruited two thousand men, the Edmonton district as many more. All over Canada, from Vancouver to Halifax, it was the same.

From the Wapiti district twenty-six ranchers, furnishing their own horses, had already gone. Ewen Innes was in Edmonton. His brother Malcolm was in uniform, too, and his young brother Jim was keen to enlist. Neil Fraser was busy raising a company of Wapiti men. Young Pickles and McCann had joined up as buglers.

And so the stream flowed, Barry listening with grave face but making no response.

"And I'm glad you're back, my boy. I'm glad you're back," said his father, clapping him on the shoulder.

The rest of the meal was eaten in silence. They were having each his own thoughts, and for the first time in their life together, they kept their thoughts to themselves.

"You're going to your office, Dad," said Barry, when they had cleared away, and set the house in order.

"No, the office is closed, and will be for some time, I imagine. I'm busy with Neil Fraser. I'm acting paymaster, quartermaster, recruiting sergeant, and half a dozen other things."

"I'll go down with you," said Barry, as his father rose to go.

His father came back to him, put his hands on his shoulders, and said:

"Barry, I want you to go to bed."

"Nonsense, dad. I'm all right. I'm going downtown with you."

"Barry," said his father, "we have hard times before us, and you must be fit. I ask you to go to bed and sleep there this forenoon. You're half asleep now. This afternoon we shall face up to our job."

His father's voice was quietly authoritative and Barry yielded.

"All right, dad. I'll do as you say, and this afternoon—well, we'll see."

At the noonday meal they were conscious of a mutual restraint. For the first time in their lives they were not opening to each other their innermost souls. The experience was as distressing as it was unusual. The father, as if in dread of silence, was obviously exerting himself to keep a stream of talk flowing. Barry was listening with a face very grave and very unlike the bright and buoyant face he usually carried. They avoided each other's eyes, and paid little heed to their food.

At length Barry pushed back his chair.

"Will you excuse me, dad," he said. "I think I shall step out a moment into the garden."

"Do, Barry," said his father, in obvious relief. "You are fagged out, my boy."

"Thanks, dad. I am a bit played out."

"And take it easy this afternoon, Barry. To-night you will tell me about your trip, and—and—we'll have a talk."

"Good old dad!" said Barry. "You do understand a chap. See you later, then," he called back as he passed through the door.

His father sat gazing before him for some moments with a deep shadow on his face.

"There is something wrong with that boy," he said to himself. "I wish I knew what it was."

He set his house in order, moving heavily as if a sudden weight of years had fallen upon his shoulders, and took his way slowly down the street.

"I wonder what it is," he mused, refusing to give form to a horrible thought that hovered like a spectre about the windows of his soul.

The first glance at his son's face at the time of the evening meal made his heart sing within him.

"He's all right again! He's all right!" he said to himself jubilantly.

"Hello, dad," cried Barry, as his father entered the room. "Supper's just ready. How do you feel, eh?"

"Better, my boy—first rate, I mean. I'm properly hungry. You're rested, I can see."

"I'm all right, dad! I'm all right!" cried Barry, in his old cheery way. "Dad, I want to apologise to you. I wasn't myself to-day, but now I'm all right again. Dad, I've joined up. I'm a soldier now," he said with a smile on his face, but with anxious eyes turned on his father.

"Joined up!" echoed his father. "Barry, you have enlisted! Thank God, my boy. I feared—I thought—No, damned if I did!" he added, with such an unusual burst of passion that Barry could only gaze at him with astonishment.

"Forgive me, my boy," he said, coming forward with outstretched hand. "For a moment I confess I thought—" Again he paused, apparently unable to continue.

"You thought, dad," cried Barry, "and—forgive me, dad—I thought too. I ought to have known you better."

"And I, you, my son."

They shook hands with each other in an ecstasy of jubilation.

"My God, I'm glad that's through," said the older man. "We were both fools, Barry, but thank God that horror is past. Now tell me all about everything—your trip, your plans. Let's have a good talk as we always do."

"Come on then, dad," cried Barry. "Let's have an eat first. By Jove, I feel a thousand years younger. I go to the M. O. to-morrow for an examination."

"He is quite unusually severe in his interpretation of the regulations, I understand," said his father. "He is turning men down right and left. He knows, of course, that there are plenty to choose from. But there is no fear of your fitness, Barry."

"Not much," said Barry, with a gay laugh.

Never had they spent a happier evening together. True, the spectre of war would thrust itself upon them, but they faced it as men—with a full appreciation of its solemn reality, but without fear, and with a quiet determination to make whatever sacrifice might be demanded of them. The perfect understanding that had always marked their intercourse with each other was restored. The intolerable burden of mutual uncertainty in regard to each other's attitude toward the war was lifted. All shadows that lay between them were gone. Nothing else really mattered.

The day following, Barry received a rude shock. The M. O., after an examination, to his amazement and dismay, pronounced him physically unfit for service.

"And why, pray?" cried his father indignantly, when Barry announced the astounding report. "Is the man a fool? I understood that he was strict. But you! unfit! It is preposterous. Unfit! how?"

"Heart murmur," said Barry. "Sets it down to asthma. You remember I told you I had a rotten attack after my experience last week in the river. He suggested that I apply for a position in an ambulance corps, and he is giving me a letter to Colonel Sidleigh at Edmonton. I am going to-morrow to Edmonton to see Sidleigh, and besides I have some church business to attend to. I must call upon my superintendent. You remember I made an application to him for another mission field."

He found Colonel Sidleigh courteously willing to accept his application, the answer to which, he was informed, he might expect in a fortnight; and so went with a comparatively light heart to his interview with his superintendent.

The interview, however, turned out not entirely as he had expected. He went with an idea of surrendering his appointment. His superintendent made him an offer of another and greater.

"So they turned you down," said the superintendent. "Well, I consider it most providential. You have applied for a position on the ambulance corps. As fine as is that service, and as splendid as are its possibilities, I offer you something much finer, and I will even say much more important to our army and to our cause. We are in need of men for the Chaplain Service, and for this service we demand the picked men of our church. The appointments that have been made already are some of them most unsuitable, some, I regret to say, scandalous. Let me tell you, sir, of an experience in Winnipeg only last week. It was, my fortune to fall in with the commanding officer of a Saskatchewan unit. I found him in a rage against the church and all its officials. His chaplain had become so hilarious at the mess that he was quite unable to carry on."

"Hilarious?" inquired Barry.

"Hilarious, sir. Yes, plain drunk. Think of it. Think of the crime! the shame of it! A man charged with the responsibility of the souls of these men going to war—possibly to their death—drunk, in their presence! A man standing for God and the great eternal verities, incapacitated before them! I took the matter up with Ottawa, and I have this satisfaction at least, that I believe that no such appointment will ever be made again. That chaplain, I may say too, has been dismissed. I have here, sir, a mission field suitable to your ability and experience. I shall not offer it to you. I am offering you the position of chaplain in one of our Alberta battalions."

Barry stood before him, dumb with dismay.

"Of course, I want to go to the war," he said at length, "but I am sure, sir, I am not the man for the position you offer me."

"Sir," said the superintendent, "I have taken the liberty of sending in your name. Time was an element. Appointments were being rapidly made, and I was extremely anxious that you should go with this battalion. I confess to a selfish interest. My own boy, Duncan, has enlisted in that unit, and many of our finest young men with him. I assumed the responsibility of asking for your appointment. I must urge you solemnly to consider the matter before you decline."

Eloquently Barry pleaded his unfitness, instancing his failure as a preacher in his last field.

"I am not a preacher," he protested. "I am not a 'mixer.' They all say so. I shall be impossible as a chaplain."

"Young man," said the superintendent, a note of sternness in his voice, "you know not what transformations in character this war will work. Would I were twenty years younger," he added passionately, "twenty years sounder. Think of the opportunity to stand for God among your men, to point them the way of duty, and fit them for it, to bring them comfort, when they need comfort sorely, to bring them peace, when they most need peace."

Barry came away from the interview more disturbed than he had ever been in his life. After he had returned to his hotel, a message from his superintendent recalled him.

"I have a bit of work to do," he said, "in which I need your help. I wish you to join me in a visitation of some of the military camps in this district. We start this evening."

There was nothing for it but to obey his superintendent's orders. The two weeks' experience with his chief gave Barry a new view and a new estimate of the chaplain's work. As he came into closer touch with camp life and its conditions, he began to see how great was the soldier's need of such moral and spiritual support as a chaplain might be able to render. He was exposed to subtle and powerful temptations. He was deprived of the wonted restraints imposed by convention, by environment, by family ties. The reactions from the exhaustion of physical training, from the monotonous routine of military discipline, from loneliness and homesickness were such as to call for that warm, sympathetic, brotherly aid, and for the uplifting spiritual inspiration that it is a chaplain's privilege to offer. But in proportion as the service took on a nobler and loftier aspect, was Barry conscious to a corresponding degree of his own unfitness for the work.

When he returned to the city, he found no definite information awaiting him in regard to a place in the ambulance corps. He returned home in an unhappy and uncertain frame of mind.

But under the drive of war, events were moving rapidly in Barry's life. He arrived late in the afternoon, and proceeding to the military H.Q., he found neither his father nor Captain Neil Fraser in the office.

"Gone out for the afternoon, sir," was the word from the orderly in charge.

Wandering about the village, he saw in a field at its outskirts, a squad of recruits doing military evolutions and physical drill. As he drew near he was arrested by the short, snappy tones of the N. C. O. in charge.

"That chap knows his job," he said to himself, "and looks like his job, too," he added, as his eyes rested upon the neat, upright, soldier-like figure.

Captain Neil he found observing the drill from a distance.

"What do you think of that?" he called out to Barry, as the latter came within hailing distance. "What do you think of my sergeant?"

"Fine," replied Barry. "Where did you get him?"

"What? Look at him!"

"I am. Pretty natty sergeant he makes, too."

"Let's go out there, and I'll introduce him."

As they crossed the parade ground, the sergeant dropped his military tone and proceeded to explain in his ordinary voice some details in connection with the drill. Barry, catching the sound of his voice, stopped short.

"You don't mean it, Captain Neil! Not dad, is it?"

"Nobody else," said Captain Neil. "Wait a minute. Wait and let's watch him at his work."

For some time they stood observing the work of the new sergeant. Barry was filled with amazement and delight.

"What do you think of him?" inquired Captain Neil.

But Barry made no reply.

"My company sergeant major got drunk," continued Captain Neil. "I had no one to take the drill. I asked your father to take it. He nearly swept us off our feet. In consequence, there he stands, my company sergeant major, and let me tell you, he will be the regimental sergeant major before many weeks have passed, or I'm a German."

"But his age," inquired Barry, still in a maze of astonishment.

"Oh, that's all right. You don't want them too young. I assured the authorities that he was of proper military age, telling them, at the same time, that I must have him. He's a wonder, and the men just adore him."

"I don't wonder at that," said Barry.

Together they moved over to the squad. The sergeant, observing his officer, called his men smartly to attention, and greeted the captain with a very snappy salute.

"Sergeant major, let me introduce you to my friend, Mr. Barry Dunbar," said Captain Neil with a grin.

"I say, dad," said Barry, still unable to associate his father with this N. C. O. in uniform who stood before him. "I say, dad, where did you get all that military stuff?"

"I'm very rusty, my boy, very rusty! I hope to brush up, though. The men are improving, I think, sir."

"I'm sure of it," said Captain Neil. "How is that wild man from Athabasca doing?"

"He is finding it hard work, sir, I'm afraid. He finds it difficult to connect up this drill business with the business of war. He wants to go right off and kill Germans. But he is making an effort to put up with me."

"And you, with him, eh, sergeant major? But turn them loose. They have done enough for to-day, and I know your son wants to take you off with him, and get you to explain how you go into the army."

The explanation came as they were walking home together.

"You see, boy, I felt keenly your disappointment in being rejected from the fighting forces of the country. I felt too that our family ought to be represented in the fighting line, so when Captain Fraser found himself in need of a drill sergeant, I could hardly refuse. I would have liked to have consulted you, my boy, but—"

"Not at all, dad; you did perfectly right. It was just fine of you. I'm as proud as Punch. I only wish I could go with you. I'd like to be in your squad. But never mind, I've two jobs open to me now, and I sorely need your advice."

Together they talked over the superintendent's offer of the position of chaplain.

"I can't see myself a chaplain, dad. The position calls for an older man, a man of wider experience. Many of these men would be almost twice my age. Now the superintendent himself would be the man for the job. You ought to see him at his work with the soldiers. I really can't think I'm fit."

In this opinion his father rather concurred.

"An older man would be better, Barry—a man of more experience would be of more service, and, yet I don't know. One thing I am sure of, if you accept the position, I believe you will fill it worthily. After all, in every department, this war is a young man's job."

"Of course," said Barry. "If I went as chaplain, it would be in your unit, dad, and that would be altogether glorious."

"I do hope so. But we must not allow that, however, to influence our decision," replied his father.

"I know, I know!" hurriedly agreed Barry. "I trust I would not be unduly influenced by personal considerations."

This hope, however, was rudely dashed by an unexpected call for a draft of recruits from Captain Neil's company that came through from Colonel Kavanagh to replace a draft suddenly dispatched to make up to strength another western regiment. Attached to the call there was a specific request, which amounted to a demand for the sergeant major, for whose special qualifications as physical and military instructor there was apparently serious need in Colonel Kavanagh's regiment.

With great reluctance, and with the expenditure of considerable profanity, Captain Neil Fraser dispatched his draft and agreed to the surrender of his sergeant major.

The change came as a shock to both Barry and his father. For some days they had indulged the hope that they would both be attached to the same military unit, and unconsciously this had been weighing with Barry in his consideration of his probable appointment as chaplain.

The disappointment of their hope was the more bitter when it was announced that Colonel Kavanagh's battalion was warned for immediate service overseas, and the further announcement that in all probability the new battalion, to which the Wapiti company would be attached, might not be dispatched until some time in the spring.

"But you may catch us up in England, Barry," said his father, when Barry was deploring their ill luck. "No one knows what our movements will be. I do wish, however, that your position were definitely settled."

The decision in this matter came quickly, and was, without his will or desire, materially hastened by Barry himself.

Colonel Kavanagh's battalion being under orders to depart within ten days, a final Church Parade was ordered, at which only soldiers and their kin were permitted to be present. The preacher for the day falling ill from an overweight of war work, and Barry being in the city with nothing to do, the duty of preaching at this Parade Service was suddenly thrust upon him.

To his own amazement and to that of his father, Barry accepted without any fear or hesitation this duty which in other circumstances would have overwhelmed him with dismay. But to Barry the occasion was of such surpassing magnitude and importance that all personal considerations were obliterated.

The war, with its horrors, its losses, its overwhelming sacrifice, its vast and eternal issues, was the single fact that filled his mind. It was this that delivered him from that nervous self-consciousness, the preacher's curse, that paralyses the mental activities, chills the passions, and cloggs the imagination, so that his sermon becomes a lifeless repetition of words, previously prepared, correct, even beautiful, it may be in form, logical in argument, sound in philosophy, but dead, dull and impotent, bereft of the fire that kindles the powers of the soul, the emotion that urges to action, the imagination that lures to high endeavour.

"I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service."

The voice, clear, vibrant, melodious, arrested with its first word the eyes and hearts of his hearers, and so held them to the end. With the earnest voice there was the fascination of a face alight with a noble beauty, eyes glowing as with lambent flame.

A second time he read the appealing words, then paused and allowed his eyes to wander quietly over the congregation. They represented to him in that hour the manhood and womanhood of his country. Sincerely, with no attempt at rhetoric and with no employment of any of its tricks, he began his sermon.

"This war," he said, "is a conflict of ideals eternally opposed. Our ambitious and ruthless enemy has made the issue and has determined the method of settlement. It is a war of souls, but the method of settlement is not that of reason but that of force—a force that finds expression through your bodies. Therefore the appeal of the Apostle Paul, this old-world hero, to the men of his time reaches down to us in this day, and at this crisis of the world's history. Offer your bodies—these living bodies—these sacred bodies—offer them in sacrifice to God."

There was little discussion of the causes of the war. What need? They knew that this war was neither of their desiring nor of their making. There was no attempt to incite hatred or revenge. There was little reference to the horrors of war, to its griefs, its dreadful agonies, its irreparable losses.

From the first word he lifted his audience to the high plane of sacrament and sacrifice. They were called upon to offer upon the altar of the world's freedom all that they held dear in life—yea, life itself! It was the ancient sacrifice that the noblest of the race had always been called upon to make. In giving themselves to this cause they were giving themselves to their country. They were offering themselves to God. In simple diction, and in clear flowing speech, the sermon proceeded without pause or stumbling to the end. The preacher closed with an appeal to the soldiers present to make this sacrifice of theirs at once worthy and complete. These bodies of theirs were sacred and were devoted to this cause. It was their duty to keep them clean and fit.

For a few brief moments, he turned to the others present at the service—the fathers, mothers, wives and sweethearts of the soldiers, and reminded them in tones thrilling with tenderness and sympathy that though not privileged to share in the soldiers' service in the front lines, none the less might they share in this sacrifice, by patient endurance of the separation and loss, by a cheerful submission to trial, and by continual remembrance in prayer to Almighty God of the sacred cause and its defenders they might help to bring this cause to victory.

In the brief prayer that followed the sermon, in words tender, simple, heart-moving, he led the people in solemn dedication of themselves, soul and body, to their country, to their cause, to their God.

The effect of the sermon and prayer was overpowering. There were no tears, but men walked out with heads more erect, because of the exaltation of spirit which was theirs. And women, fearful of the coming hour of parting, felt their hearts grow strong within them with the thought that they were voluntarily sending their men away. Upon the whole congregation lay a new and solemn sense of duty, a new and uplifting sense of privilege in making the sacrifice of all that they counted precious for this holy cause.

It was the sermon that brought the decision in the matter of Barry's appointment.

"What do you think of that, Colonel Kavanagh?" asked Captain Neil Fraser, who came in for the service.

"A very fine sermon! A very notable sermon!" said the colonel. "Who is he?"

"He is my own minister," said Captain Neil, "and he gave me, to-day, the surprise of my life. I didn't know it was in him. I understand there is a chance of his being our chaplain. He is Sergeant Dunbar's son."

"I wish to Heaven we could take him with us! What about it, Fraser? We've got the father, why not the son, too? They'd both like it."

"I say, Colonel, for Heaven's sake, have a heart. I hated to surrender my company sergeant major. I don't think I ought to be asked to surrender our chaplain."

"All right, Fraser, so be it. But you have got a wonderful chaplain in that boy. What a face! What a voice! And that's the kind of a spirit we want in our men."

That very afternoon, Captain Neil went straight away to Colonel Leighton, the officer commanding the new regiment to which Captain Neil's company belonged. To the colonel he gave an enthusiastic report of the sermon, with Colonel Kavanagh's judgment thereon.

"I would suggest, sir, that you wire Ottawa on the matter," he urged. "If Colonel Kavanagh thought he had a chance, he would not hesitate. We really ought to get this fixed. I assure you he's a find."

"Go to it, then, Fraser. I'm rather interested to see your earnest desire for a chaplain. The Lord knows you need one! Go up to Headquarters and use my name. Say what you like."

Thus it came that the following day Barry was informed by wire of his appointment as chaplain of the new regiment of Alberta rangers.

"It's at least a relief to have the matter settled," said his father, to whom Barry brought his wire. "Barry, I'm glad of the opportunity to tell you that since yesterday, my mind has undergone considerable change. I am not sure but that you have found your place and your work in the war."

"No, dad," answered Barry, "I wasn't responsible for that sermon yesterday. The war was very near and very real to me. Those boys were looking up at me, and you were there, dad. You drew that sermon stuff out of me."

"If once, why not again? At any rate, it greatly rejoiced me to know that it was there in you. I don't say I was proud of you, my boy. I was proud of you, but that is not the word that I should like to use. I was profoundly grateful that I was privileged to hear a sermon like that from a son of mine. Now, Barry," continued his father, "this is our last day together for some months, perhaps forever," he added in a low tone.

"Don't, daddy, don't," cried Barry, "I can't bear to think of that to-day."

"All right, Barry, but why not? It is really far better that we should face all the possibilities. But now that we have this day—and what a perfect day it is—for our last day together, what shall we do with it?"

"I know, dad—I think you would wish that we take our ride into the foothills to-day."

"It was in my mind, my boy. I hesitated to suggest it. So let us go."

It was one of those rare November days that only Alberta knows, mellow with the warm sun, and yet with a nip in it that suggested the coming frost, without a ripple of the wind that almost constantly sweeps the Alberta ranges. In the blue sky hung motionless, like white ships at sea, bits of cloud. The long grass, brown, yellow and green in a hundred shades, lay like a carpet over the rolling hills and wide spreading valleys, reaching up on every side to the horizon, except toward the west, where it faded into the blue of the foothills at the bases of the mighty Rockies.

Up the long trail, resilient to their horses' feet, they cantered where the going was good, or picked their way with slow and careful tread where the rocky ridges jutted through the black soil.

They made no effort to repulse the thought that this was their last day together, nor did they seek to banish the fact of the war. With calm courage and hope they faced the facts of their environment, seeking to aid each other in readjusting their lives to those facts. They were resolutely cheerful. The day was not to be spoiled with tears and lamentations. Already each in his own place and time had made his sacrifice of a comradeship that was far dearer than life. The agony of that hour, each had borne in silence and alone. No shadow should fall across this sunny day.

By the side of the grave, in its little palisaded enclosure, they lingered, the father recalling the days of his earlier manhood, which had been brightened by a love whose fragrance he had cherished and shared with his son through their years together, Barry listening with reverent attention and tender sympathy.

"I had always planned that I too should be laid here, Barry," said his father, as they prepared to take their departure, "but do you know, boy, this war has made many changes in me and this is one. It seems to me a very little thing where my body lies, if it be offered, as you were saying so beautifully yesterday, in sacrifice to our cause."

Barry could only nod his head in reply. He was deeply moved.

"You are young, Barry," said his father, noting his emotion, "and life is very dear to you, my boy."

"No, dad, no! Not life," said Barry brokenly. "Not life, only you, dad. I just want you, and, oh dad!" continued the boy, losing hold of himself and making no effort to check or hide the tears that ran down his face, "if one of us is to go in this war,—as is likely enough,—I only want that the other should be there at the time. It would be—terribly—lonely—dad—to go out myself—without you. Or to have you go out—alone.—We have always been together—and you have been—so very good to me, dad. I can't help this, dad,—I try—but I am not strong enough—I'm not holding back from the sacrifice, dad," hurrying his words,—"No, no, not that, but perhaps you understand."

For answer, his father put both his arms around his son, drew his head down to his breast, as if he had been a child.

"There, there, laddie," he said, patting him on the shoulder, "I know, I know! Oh God, how I know. We have lived together very closely, without a shadow ever between us, and my prayer, since this war began, has been that in death, if it had to be, we might be together, and, Barry, somehow I believe God will give us that."

"Good old dad, good old boy! What a brick you are! I couldn't help that, dad. Forgive me for being a baby, and spoiling the day—"

"Forgive you, boy," still with his arms around his son, "Barry, I love you for it. You've never brought me one sorrow nor will you. To-day and every day I thank God for you, my son."

They rode back through the evening toward the camp. By the time they arrived there, the sun had sunk behind the mountains, and the quiet stars were riding serenely above the broken, floating clouds, and in their hearts was peace.



CHAPTER VIII

A QUESTION OF NERVE

"Gentlemen, may I introduce Captain Dunbar, your sky-pilot, padre, chaplain, anything you like? They say he's a devil of a good preacher. The Lord knows you need one."

So Barry's commanding officer introduced him to the mess.

He bowed in different directions to the group of officers who, in the ante-room of the mess, were having a pre-prandial cocktail. Barry found a place near the foot of the table and for a few minutes sat silent, getting his bearings.

Some of the officers were known to him. He had met the commanding officer, Colonel Leighton, a typical, burly Englishman, the owner of an Alberta horse ranch, who, well to do to begin with, had made money during his five years in the country. He had the reputation of being a sporting man, of easy morality, fond of his glass and of good living. He owed his present position, partly to political influence, and partly to his previous military experience in the South African war. His popularity with his officers was due largely to his easy discipline, and to the absence of that rigidity of manner which is supposed to go with high military command, and which civilians are wont to find so irksome.

Barry had also met Major Bustead, the Senior Major of the Battalion, and President of the mess, an eastern Canadian, with no military experience whatever, but with abounding energy and ambition; the close friend and boon companion of Colonel Leighton, he naturally had become his second in command. Barry was especially delighted to observe Major Bayne, whom he had not seen since his first meeting with him some months ago on the Red Pine Trail. Captain Neil Fraser and Lieutenant Stewart Duff were the only officers about the table whom he recognised, except that, among the junior lieutenants, he caught the face of young Duncan Cameron, the oldest son of his superintendent, and a fine, clean-looking young fellow he appeared.

Altogether Barry was strongly attracted by the clean, strong faces about him. He would surely soon find good friends among them, and he only hoped he might be able to be of some service to them.

The young fellow on his right introduced himself as Captain Hopeton. He was a young English public school boy, who, though a failure as a rancher, had proved an immense success in the social circles of the city. Because of this, and also of his family connections "at home," he had been appointed to a Civil Service position. A rather bored manner and a supercilious air spoiled what would otherwise have been a handsome and attractive face.

After a single remark about the "beastly bore" of military duty, Hopeton ignored Barry, giving such attention as he had to spare from his dinner to a man across the table, with whom, apparently, he had shared some rather exciting social experiences in the city.

For the first half hour of the meal, the conversation was of the most trivial nature, and was to Barry supremely uninteresting. "Shop talk" was strictly taboo, and also all reference to the war. The thin stream of conversation that trickled from lip to lip ran the gamut of sport, spiced somewhat highly with society scandal which, even in that little city, appeared to flourish.

To Barry it was as if he were in a strange land and among people of a strange tongue. Of sport, as understood by these young chaps, he knew little, and of scandal he was entirely innocent; so much so that many of the references that excited the most merriment were to him utterly obscure. After some attempts to introduce topics of conversation which he thought might be of mutual interest, but which had fallen quite flat, Barry gave up, and sat silent with a desolating sense of loneliness growing upon his spirit.

"After the port," when smoking was permitted, he was offered a cigarette by Hopeton, and surprised that young man mightily by saying that he never smoked. This surprise, it is to be feared, deepened into disgust when, a few moments later, he declined a drink from Hopeton's whisky bottle, which a servant brought him.

Liquors were not provided at the mess, but officers were permitted to order what they desired.

As the bottles circulated, tongues were loosened. There was nothing foul in the talk, but more and more profanity, with frequent apology to the chaplain, began to decorate the conversation. Conscious of a deepening disgust with his environment, and of an overwhelming sense of isolation, Barry cast vainly about for a means of escape. Of military etiquette he was ignorant; hence he could only wait in deepening disgust for the O. C. to give the signal to rise. How long he could have endured is doubtful, but release came in a startling, and, to most of the members of the mess, a truly horrifying manner.

In one of those strange silences that fall upon even the noisiest of companies, Colonel Leighton, under the influence of a somewhat liberal indulgence in his whisky bottle, began the relation of a tale of very doubtful flavour. In the midst of the laughter that followed the tale, Barry rose to his feet, his face white and his eyes aflame, and in a voice vibrating with passion, said:

"May I be excused, sir?"

"Why, certainly," said the colonel pleasantly, adding after a moment's hesitation, "is there anything wrong, Dunbar? Are you ill?"

"No, sir." Barry's voice had the resonant quality of a cello string. "I mean, yes, sir," he corrected. "I am ill. The atmosphere surrounding such a tale is nauseating to me."

In the horrified silence that followed his remark, he walked out from the room. Upon his ears, as he stood in the ante-room, trembling with the violence of his passion, a burst of laughter fell. A sudden wrath like a hot flame swept his body. He wheeled in his tracks, tore open the door, and with head high and face set, strode to his place at the table and sat down.

Astonishment beyond all words held the company in tense stillness. From Barry's face they looked toward the colonel, who, too dumfounded for speech or action, sat gazing at his chaplain. Then from the end of the table a few places down from Barry, a voice was heard.

"Feel better, Dunbar?" The cool, clear voice cut through the tense silence like the zip of a sword.

"I do, thank you, sir," looking him straight in the eye.

"The fresh air, doubtless," continued the cool voice. "I always find myself that even a whiff of fresh air is a very effective antidote for threatening vertigo. I remember once—" continued the speaker, dropping into a conversational tone, and leaning across the table slightly toward Barry, "I was in the room with a company of men—" And the speaker entered upon a long and none too interesting relation of an experience of his, the point of which no one grasped, but the effect of which every one welcomed with the profoundest relief. He was the regimental medical officer, a tall, slight man, with a keen eye, a pleasant face crowned by a topknot of flaming hair, and with a little dab of hair of like colour upon his upper lip, which he fondly cherished, as an important item in his military equipment.

"Say, the old doc is a lifesaver, sure enough," said a young subaltern, answering to the name of "Sally," colloquial for Salford, as he stood amid a circle of officers gathered in the smoking room a few minutes later. "A lifesaver," repeated Sally, with emphasis. "He can have me for his laboratory collection after I'm through."

"He is one sure singing bird," said another sub, a stout, overgrown boy by the name of Booth. "The nerve of him," added Booth in admiration.

"Nerve!" echoed a young captain, "but what about the pilot's nerve?"

"Sui generis, Train, I should say," drawled Hopeton.

"Suey, who did you say?" inquired Sally. "What's her second name? But let me tell you I could have fallen on his neck and burst into tears of gratitude. For me," continued Sally, glancing about the room, "I don't hold with that dirt stuff at mess. It isn't necessary."

"Beastly bad form," said Hopeton, "but, good Lord! Your Commanding Officer, Sally! There's such a thing as discipline, you know."

"What extraordinary thing is it that Sally knows?" inquired Major Bustead, who lounged up to the group.

"We were discussing the padre's break, Major, which for my part," drawled Hopeton, "I consider rotten discipline."

"Discipline!" snorted the major. "By Gad, it was a piece of the most damnable cheek I have ever heard at a mess table. He ought to be sent to Coventry. I only hope the O. C. will get him exchanged."

The major made no effort to subdue his voice, which was plainly audible throughout the room.

"Hush, for God's sake," warned Captain Train, as Barry entered the door. "Here he is."

But Barry had caught the major's words. For a moment he stood irresolute; then walked quietly toward the group.

"I couldn't help hearing you, Major Bustead," he said, in a voice pleasant and under perfect control. "I gather you were referring to me."

"I was, sir," said the major defiantly.

"And why should I be sent to Coventry, or exchanged, may I ask?" Barry's voice was that of an interested outsider.