"Because," stuttered the Major, "I consider, sir, that—that—you have been guilty of a piece of damnable impertinence toward your Commanding Officer. I never heard anything like it in my life. Infernal cheek, I call it, sir."

While the major was speaking, Barry stood listening with an air of respectful attention.

"I wonder!" he said, after a moment's thought. "If I thought I had been impertinent, I should at once apologise. But, sir, do you think it is part of my duty to allow any man, even my Commanding Officer, to—pardon the disgusting metaphor, it is not so disgusting as the action complained of—to spit in my soup, and take it without protest? Do you, sir?"

"I—you—" The major grew very red in the face. "You need to learn your place in this battalion, sir."

"I do," said Barry, still preserving his quiet voice and manner. "I want to learn—I am really anxious to learn it. Do you mind answering my question?" His tone was that of a man who is earnestly but quite respectfully seeking information from a superior officer.

"Your question, sir?" stuttered the major, "your—your—question. Damn your question, and yourself too."

The major turned abruptly away. Barry heard him quite unmoved, stood looking after him in silence a moment or two, then, shaking his head, with a puzzled expression on his face, moved slowly away from the group.

"Oh, my aunt Caroline," breathed Sally into his friend Hopeton's ear, resting heavily meanwhile against his shoulder. "What a score! What a score!"

"A bull, begad! a clean bull!" murmured Hopeton, supporting his friend out of the room as he added, "A little fresh air, as a preventative of vertigo, as the old doc says, eh, Sally."

"Good Lord, is he just a plain ass, or what?" inquired young Booth, his eye following Barry down the room.

"Ass! A mule, I should say. And one with a good lot of kick in him," replied Captain Train. "I don't know that I care for that kind of an animal, though."

Before many hours had passed, the whole battalion had received with undiluted joy an account of the incident, for though the Commanding Officer was popular with his men, to have him called down at his own mess by one of his own officers was an event too thrilling to give anything but unalloyed delight to those who had to suffer in silence similar indignities at the hands of their officers.

A notable exception in the battalion, however, was Sergeant Major McFetteridge, who, because of his military experience, and of his reputation as a disciplinarian, had been recently transferred to the battalion. To the sergeant major this act of Barry's was but another and more flagrant example of his fondness for "buttin' in," and the sergeant major let it be known that he strongly condemned the chaplain for what he declared was an unheard of breach of military discipline.

Of course there were others who openly approved, and who admired the chaplain's "nerve in standing up to the old man." In their opinion he was entirely justified in what he had said. The O. C. had insulted him, and every officer at the mess, by his off-colour story, but on the whole the general result of the incident was that Barry's life became more and more one of isolation from both officers and men. For this reason and because of a haunting sense of failure the months of training preceding the battalion's departure for England were for Barry one long and almost uninterrupted misery. It seemed impossible to establish any point of contact with either the officers or the men. In their athletics, in their social gatherings, in their reading, he was quietly ignored and made to feel that he was in no way necessary. An impalpable but very real barrier prevented his near approach to those whom he was so eager to serve.

This unexpressed opposition was quickened into active hostility by the chaplain's uncompromising attitude on the liquor question. By the army regulations, the battalion canteen was dry, but in spite of this many, both of the officers and the men, freely indulged in the use of intoxicating drink. The effect upon discipline was, of course, deplorable, and in his public addresses as well as private conversation, Barry constantly denounced these demoralising habits, winning thereby the violent dislike of those especially affected, and the latent hostility of the majority of the men who agreed with the sergeant major in resenting the chaplain's "buttin' in."

It was, therefore, with unspeakable joy that Barry learned that the battalion was warned for overseas service. Any change in his lot would be an improvement, for he was convinced that he had reached the limit of wretchedness in the exercise of his duty as chaplain of the battalion.

In this conviction, however, he was mistaken. On shipboard, he discovered that there were still depths of misery which he was called upon to plumb. Assigned to a miserable stateroom in an uncomfortable part of the ship, he suffered horribly from seasickness, and for the first half of the voyage lay foodless and spiritless in his bunk, indifferent to his environment or to his fate. His sole friend was his batman, Harry Hobbs, but, of course, he could not confide to Harry the misery of his body, or the deeper misery of his soul.

It was Harry, however, that brought relief, for it was he that called the M. O. to his officer's bedside. The M. O. was shocked to find the chaplain in a state of extreme physical weakness, and mental depression. At once, he gave orders that Barry should be removed to his own stateroom, which was large and airy and open to the sea breezes. The effect was immediately apparent, for the change of room, and more especially the touch of human sympathy, did much to restore Barry to his normal health and spirits. A friendship sprang up between the M. O. and the chaplain. With this friendship a new interest came into Barry's life, and with surprising rapidity he regained both his physical and mental tone.

The doctor took him resolutely in hand, pressed him to take his part in the daily physical drill, induced him to share the daily programme of sports, and, best of all, discovering a violin on board, insisted on his taking a place on the musical programme rendered nightly in the salon. As might be expected, his violin won him friends among all of the music lovers on board ship, and life for Barry began once more to be bearable.

Returning strength, however, recalled him to the performance of his duties as chaplain, and straightway in the exercise of what he considered his duty, he came into conflict with no less a personage than the sergeant major himself. The trouble arose over his batman, Harry Hobbs.

Harry was a man who, in his youthful days, had been a diligent patron of the London music halls, and in consequence had become himself an amateur entertainer of very considerable ability. His sailor's hornpipes, Irish jigs, his old English North-country ballads and his coster songs were an unending joy to his comrades. Their gratitude and admiration took forms that proved poor Harry's undoing, and besides some of them took an unholy joy in sending the chaplain's batman to his officer incapable of service.

Barry's indignation and grief were beyond words. He dealt faithfully with the erring Hobbs, as his minister, as his officer, as chaplain, but the downward drag of his environment proved too great for his batman's powers of resistance. Once and again Barry sought the aid of the sergeant major to rescue Harry from his downward course, but the old sergeant major was unimpressed with the account of Harry's lapses.

"Is your batman unfit for duty, sir?" he inquired.

"Yes, he is, often," said Barry indignantly.

"Did you report him, sir?" inquired the sergeant major.

"No, I did not."

"Then, sir, I am afraid that until you do your duty I can do nothing," answered the sergeant major, with suave respect.

"If you did your duty," Barry was moved to say, "then Hobbs would not need to be reported. The regulations governing that canteen should prevent these frequent examples of drunkenness, which are a disgrace to the battalion."

"Do I understand, sir," inquired the sergeant major, with quiet respect, "that you are accusing me of a failure in duty?"

"I am saying that if the regulations were observed my batman and others would not be so frequently drunk, and the enforcing of these regulations, I understand, is a part of your duty."

"Then, sir," replied the sergeant major, "perhaps I had better report myself to the Commanding Officer."

"You can please yourself," said Barry, shortly, as he turned away.

"Very good, sir," replied the sergeant major. "I shall report myself at once."

The day following, the chaplain received an order to appear before the O. C. in the orderly room.

"Captain Dunbar, I understand that you are making a charge against Sergeant Major McFetteridge," was Colonel Leighton's greeting.

"I am making no charge against any one, sir," replied Barry quietly.

"What do you say to that, Sergeant Major McFetteridge?"

In reply, the sergeant major gave a full and fair statement of the passage between the chaplain and himself the day before.

"Is this correct, Captain Dunbar?" asked the O. C.

"Substantially correct, sir, except that the sergeant major is here on his own suggestion, and on no order of mine."

"Then I understand that you withdraw your charge against the sergeant major."

"I withdraw nothing, sir. I had no intention of laying a charge, and I have laid no charge against the sergeant major; but at the same time I have no hesitation in saying that the regulations governing the canteen are not observed, and, as I understand that the responsibility for enforcing these regulations is in the sergeant major's hands, in that sense I consider that he has failed in his duty."

But the sergeant major was too old a soldier to be caught napping. He had his witnesses ready at hand to testify that the canteen was conducted according to regulations, and that if the chaplain's batman or any others took more liquor than they should, neither the corporal in charge of the canteen nor the sergeant major was to be blamed.

"All I can say, sir," replied Barry, "is that soldiers are frequently drunk on this ship, and I myself have seen them when the worse for liquor going into the canteen."

"And did you report these men to their officers or to me, Captain Dunbar, or did you report the corporal in charge of the canteen?"

"No, sir, I did not."

"Then sir, do you know that you have been guilty of serious neglect of duty?" said the colonel sternly.

"Do I understand, sir, that it is my duty to report to you every man I see the worse for liquor on this ship?"

"Most certainly," replied the colonel, emphatically. "Every breach of discipline must be reported."

"I understood, sir, that an officer had a certain amount of discretion in a matter of this kind."

"Where did you get that notion?" inquired the colonel. "Let me tell you that you are wrong. Discretionary powers lie solely with me."

"Then, sir, I am to understand that I must report every man whom I see the worse for liquor?"

"Certainly, sir."

"And every officer, as well, sir?"

The colonel hesitated a moment, fumbled with his papers, and then blurted out:

"Certainly, sir. And let me say, Captain Dunbar, that an officer, especially an officer in your position, ought to be very careful in making a charge against a N. C. O., more particularly the sergeant major of his battalion. Nothing is more calculated to drag down discipline. The case is dismissed."

"Sir," said Barry, maintaining his place before the table. "May I ask one question?"

"The case is dismissed, Captain Dunbar. What do you want?" asked the colonel brusquely.

"I want to be quite clear as to my duty, in the future, sir. Do I understand that if any man or officer is found under the influence of liquor, anywhere in this ship, and at any hour of the day or night, he is to be reported at once to the orderly room, even though that officer should be, say, even the adjutant or yourself?" Barry said, gazing up at the colonel with a face in which earnestness and candour were equally blended.

The colonel gazed back at him with a face in which rage and perplexity were equally apparent. For some moments, he was speechless, while the whole orderly room held its breath.

"I mean—that you—you understand—of course," stuttered the colonel, "that an officer must use common sense. He must be damned sure of what he says, in other words," said the colonel, rushing his speech.

"But, sir," continued Barry.

"Oh, go to the devil, sir," roared the colonel. "The case is dismissed."

Barry saluted and left the room.

"Is the man an infernal and condemned fool, or what is the matter with him?" exclaimed the colonel, turning to his adjutant in a helpless appeal, while the orderly room struggled with its grins.

"The devil only knows," said Major Bustead. "He beats me. He is an interfering and impertinent ass, in my opinion, but what else he is, I don't know."

It is fair to say that the sergeant major bore the chaplain no grudge for his part in the affair. The whole battalion, however, soon became possessed of the tale, adorned and expanded to an unrecognisable extent, and revelled in ecstasy over the discomfort of the C. O. The consensus of opinion was that on the whole the sergeant major had come off with premier honours, and as between the "old man" and the "Sky Pilot," as Barry was coming to be called, it was about an even break. As for the Pilot, he remained more than ever a mystery, and on the whole, the battalion was inclined to leave him alone.

The chaplain, however, had partially, at least, achieved his aim, in that the regulations governing the canteen were more strictly enforced, to the vast improvement of discipline generally, and to the immense advantage of Harry Hobbs in particular.

Soon after this, another event occurred which aided materially in bringing about this same result, and which also led to a modification of opinion in the battalion in regard to their chaplain.

To the civilian soldier the punctilio of military etiquette is frequently not only a bore, but at times takes on the appearance of wilful insult which no grown man should be expected to tolerate. To the civilian soldier born and brought up in wide spaces of the far Northwest this is especially the case.

It is not surprising, therefore, that McCuaig, fresh from his thirty-five years of life in the Athabasca wilds, should find the routine of military discipline extremely irksome and the niceties of military etiquette as from a private to an officer not only foolish but degrading both to officer and man. Under the patient shepherding of Barry's father, he had endured much without protest or complaint, but, with the advent of Sergeant Major McFetteridge, with his rigid military discipline and his strict insistence upon etiquette, McCuaig passed into a new atmosphere. To the freeborn and freebred recruit from the Athabasca plains, the stiff and somewhat exaggerated military bearing of the sergeant major was at first a source of quiet amusement, later of perplexity, and finally of annoyance. For McFetteridge and his minutiae of military discipline McCuaig held only contempt. To him, the whole business was a piece of silly nonsense unworthy of serious men.

It was inevitable that the sergeant major should sooner or later discover this opinion in Private McCuaig, and that he should consider the holding of this opinion as a tendency toward insubordination. It was also inevitable that the sergeant major should order a course of special fatigues calculated to subdue the spirit of the insubordinate private.

It took McCuaig some days to discover that in these frequent fatigues and special duties, he was undergoing punishment, but once made, the discovery wrought in him a cold and silent rage, which drove him to an undue and quite unwonted devotion to the canteen, which in turn transformed the reserved, self-controlled man of the wilds into a demonstrative, disorderly and quarrelsome "rookie" aching for trouble.

Under these circumstances, an outburst was inevitable. Corporal Ferry, in charge of the canteen, furnished the occasion.

"No more for you, McCuaig. You've got more aboard now than you can carry."

To the injury of being denied another beer was added the insult of suggesting his inability to carry what he had. This to a man of McCuaig's experience in every bar and camp and roadhouse from Edmonton to the Arctic circle, was not to be endured.

He leaned over the improvised bar, until his face almost touched the corporal's.

"What?" he ejaculated, but in the single expletive there darted out such concentrated fury, that the little corporal sprang back as from a striking snake.

"You can't have any more beer, McCuaig," said the corporal, from a safe distance.

"Watch me, sonny!" replied McCuaig.

With a single sweep of his hand, he snatched two bottles from the ledge behind the corporal's head. Holding one aloft, he knocked the top off the other, drank its contents slowly and smashed the empty bottle at the spot where the corporal's head had been; knocked the top off the second bottle and was proceeding to drink it, in a more or less leisurely fashion.

"Private Timms! Private Mulligan!" shouted Corporal Ferry, reappearing from beneath the counter. "Arrest that man!"

"Wait, sonny; give me a chance," cried McCuaig, in a wild, high, singsong voice. Lifting his bottle to his lips, he continued to drink slowly, keeping his eye upon the two privates, who were considering the best method of carrying out their orders.

"There, sonny, fill that up again," cried McCuaig, good-naturedly, when he had finished his drink, tossing the second bottle at the head of the corporal, who, being on the alert, again made a successful disappearance.

"Now, then, boys, come on," said McCuaig, backing toward the wall, and dropping his hands to his hips. With a curse of disappointment that he found himself without his usual weapons of defence, McCuaig raised a shout, sprang into the air, cracked his heels together in a double rap, and swinging his arms around his head, yelled:

"Come on, my boys! I'm hungry, I am! Meat! Meat! Meat!"

With each "meat," his white teeth came together with a snap like that of a hungry wolf. Such was the beastly ferocity in his face and posture that both Private Timms and Private Mulligan, themselves men of more than average strength, paused and looked at the corporal for further orders.

"Arrest that man," said the corporal again, preserving at the same time an attitude that revealed a complete readiness for swift disappearance. "Private McTavish," he added, calling upon a tall Highlander who was gazing with admiring eyes upon the raging McCuaig, "assist Private Timms and Private Mulligan in arresting that man."

"Why don't you come yourself, sonny?" inquired McCuaig. With a swift sidestep and a swifter swoop of his long arm, he reached for the corporal, who once more found safety in swift disappearance.

At that instant, the Highlander, seeing his opportunity, flung himself upon McCuaig, and winding his arms around him, hung to him grimly, crying out:

"Get hold of his legs! Queeck! Will you?"

When the sergeant major, attracted by the unwonted uproar, appeared upon the scene, there was a man on every one of McQuaig's limbs, and another one astride his stomach. "Heavin' like sawlogs shootin' a rapid," as Private Corbin, a lumberjack from the Eau Claire, was later heard to remark.

"What is he like now?" inquired the colonel, after listening to the sergeant major's report of the Homeric combat.

"He is in a compartment in the hold, sir, and raging like one demented. He very nearly did for Major Bustead, smashing at him with a scantling that he ripped from the ship's timbers, sir. He still has the scantling, sir."

"Let him cool off all night," said the Commanding Officer, after consultation with the adjutant.

Barry, who with difficulty had restrained himself during the sergeant major's report, slipped from the room, found the M. O., to whom he detailed the story and dragged him off to visit the raging McCuaig.

They found a corporal on guard outside.

"I would not open the door, sir. He is really dangerous."

"Oh, rot!" replied the M. O. "Open up the door!"

"Excuse me, sir," said the corporal, "it is not safe. At present, he is clean crazy. He is off his nut entirely."

The M. O. stood listening at the door. From within came moaning sounds as from a suffering beast.

"That man is suffering. Open the door!" ordered the M. O. peremptorily.

The corporal, with great reluctance, unlocked the padlock, shot back the bolt, and then stood away from the door.

"It is the medical officer, McCuaig," said the doctor, opening the door slightly.

Bang! Crash! came the scantling upon the door jamb, shattering it to pieces. The whole guard flung themselves against the door, shoved it shut, and shot the bolt.

"I warned you, sir," said the panting corporal. "Better leave him until morning. He's a regular devil!"

"He is no more a devil than you are, corporal," said Barry, in a loud, clear voice. "He is one of the best men in the battalion. More than that, he is my friend, and if he spends the night there, I spend it with him."

So saying, and before any one could stop him, Barry shot back the bolt, opened the door, and with his torchlight flashing before him, stepped inside.

"Hello, McCuaig," he called, in a quiet, clear voice, "where are you? It's Dunbar, you know."

He drew the door shut after him. The corporal was for following him, but the M. O. interposed.

"Stop out!" he ordered. "Stay where you are! You have done enough mischief already."

"But, sir, he'll kill him!"

"This is my case," said the M. O. sharply. "Fall back all of you, out of sight!"

Together they stood listening in awestruck silence, expecting every moment to hear sounds of conflict, and cries for help, but all they heard was the cool, even flow of a quiet voice, and after some minutes had passed, the sound of moans, mingled with a terrible sobbing.

The M. O., moving toward the corporal and his guard, said in a low tone:

"Take your men down the passage and keep them there until I call for you."

"Sir," began the corporal.

"Will you obey my orders?" said the M. O. "I'm in command here! Go!"

Without further words, the corporal moved his men away.

Half an hour later, the sergeant major, going his rounds, received a rude shock. In the passage leading to McCuaig's compartment, he met four men, bearing on a stretcher toward the sick bay a long silent form.

"Who have you got there, corporal?" he inquired in a tone of kindly interest.

"McCuaig, sir."

"McCuaig?" roared the sergeant major. "And who—"

"Medical officer's orders."

"Silence there," said a sharp voice in the rear. "Carry on, men."

And past the astonished sergeant major, the procession filed with the medical officer and the chaplain at its tail end.

After the sergeant major had made his report to the O. C., as was his duty, the M. O. was sent for. What took place at that interview was never divulged to the mess, but it was known that whereas the conversation began in very loud tones by the Officer Commanding, it ended half an hour later with the M. O. being shown out of the room by the colonel himself, who was heard to remark:

"A very fine bit of work. Tell him I want to see him when he has a few minutes, and thank you, doctor, thank you!"

"Who does the old man want to see?" inquired Sally, who, with Hopeton and Booth, happened to be passing.

"The chaplain," snapped the M. O., going on his way.

"The chaplain? By Jove, he's a queer one, eh?"

The M. O. turned sharply back, and coming very close to Sally, said in a wrathful voice:

"A queer one? Yes, a queer one! But if some of you damned young idiots that sniff at him had just half his guts, you'd be twice the men you are.—Shut up, Hopeton! Listen to me—" and in words of fiery rage that ran close to tears, he recounted his experience of the last hour.

"By Jove! Doc, some guts, eh?" said Sally in a low tone, as he moved away.



CHAPTER IX

SUBMARINES, BULLPUPS, AND OTHER THINGS

A long, weird blast from the fog horn, followed by two short, sharp toots, recalled Barry from his morning dream.

"Fog," he grumbled, and turned over to re-capture the enchantment of the Athabasca rapids, and his dancing canoe.

Overhead there sounded the trampling of feet.

"Submarines, doc," he shouted and leaped to the floor broad awake.

"What's the row?" murmured the M. O., who was a heavy sleeper.

For answer, Barry ripped the clothes from the doctor's bed.

"Submarines, doc," he shouted again, and buckling on his Sam Brown, and seizing his lifebelt, he stood ready to go.

"What! your boots off, doc?"

In the orders of the day before had been an announcement that officers and men were to sleep fully dressed.

"Oh, the devil!" exclaimed the doctor, hunting through his bedclothes in desperation. "I can't sleep in my boots. Where's my tunic? Go on, old fellow, I'll follow you."

Barry held his tunic for him.

"Here you are! Wake up, doc! And here's your Sam Brown."

Barry dropped to lace the doctor's boots, while the latter was buckling on the rest of his equipment.

"All right," cried the doctor, rushing from the room and leaving his lifebelt behind him.

Barry caught up the lifebelt and followed.

"Your lifebelt, doc," he said, as they passed up the companion way.

"Oh, I'm a peach of a soldier," said the doctor, struggling into his lifebelt, and swearing deeply the while.

"Stop swearing, doc! It's a waste of energy."

"Oh, go to hell!"

"No, I prefer Heaven, if I must leave this ship, but for the present, I believe I'm needed here, and so are you, doc. Look there!"

The doctor glanced out upon the deck.

"By Jove! You're right, old man, we are needed and badly. I say, old chap," he said, pausing for a moment to turn to Barry, "you are a dear old thing, aren't you?"

The deck was a mass of soldiers struggling, swearing, fighting their way to their various stations. Officers, half dressed and half awake, were rushing hither and thither, seeking their units, swearing at the men and shouting meaningless orders. Over all the stentorian voice of the sergeant major was vainly trying to make itself understood.

In the confusion the cry was raised: "We're torpedoed! We're going down!"

There was a great rush for the nearest boats. Men flung discipline to the winds and began fighting for a chance of their lives. It was a terrific and humiliating scene.

Suddenly, over the tumult, was heard a loud, ringing laugh.

"Oh, I say, Duff! Not that way! Not that way!"

Again came the ringing laugh.

Immediately a silence fell upon the struggling crowd, and for a moment they stood looking inquiringly at each other. That moment of silence was seized by the sergeant major. Like a trumpet his sonorous voice rang out steady and clear.

"Fall in, men! Boat quarters! Silence there!"

He followed this with sharp, intelligible commands to his N. C. O.'s. Like magic, order fell upon the turbulent, struggling crowd.

"Stand steady, you there!" roared the sergeant major, who having got control of his men, began to indulge himself in a few telling and descriptive adjectives.

In less than two minutes, the men were standing steady as a rock and the panic was passed.

"Who was it that laughed up there in that stampede?" inquired the O. C., when the officers were gathered about him in the orderly room.

"I think it was the Sky Pilot, sir—the chaplain, sir," said Lieutenant Stewart Duff.

"Was it you that laughed, Captain Dunbar?" asked the colonel, turning upon Barry.

"Perhaps I did, sir. I'm sorry if—"

"Sorry!" exclaimed the colonel. "Dammit, sir, you saved the situation for us all. Who told you it was a false alarm?"

"No one, sir. I didn't know it was a false alarm. I was looking at Lieutenant Duff—" He checked himself promptly. "I mean, sir—well, it seemed a good place to laugh, so I just let it come."

The colonel's eyes rested with curious inquiry upon the serene face of the chaplain, with its glowing eyes and candid expression. "A good place for a laugh? It was a damned good place for a laugh, and gentlemen, I thank God I have one officer who finds in the face of sudden danger a good place for a laugh. And now I have something to say to you."

The O. C.'s remarks did not improve the officers' opinion of themselves, and they slunk out of the room—no other word properly describes the cowed and shamed appearance of that company of men—they slunk out of the room. They had failed to play the part of British officers in the face of sudden peril.

In his speech to the men, the C. O. made only a single reference to the incident, but that reference bit deep.

"Men, I am thoroughly ashamed and disappointed. You acted, not like soldiers, but like a herd of steers. The difference between a herd of steers and a battalion of soldiers, in the face of sudden danger, is only this:—the steers break blindly for God knows where, and end piled up over a cut bank; soldiers stand steady listening for the word of command."

If the O. C. handled the men with a light hand, the sergeant major did not. His tongue rasped them to the raw. No one knows a soldier as does his N. C. O., and no N. C. O. is qualified to set forth the soldier's characteristics with the intimate knowledge and adequate fluency of the sergeant major. One by one he peeled from their shivering souls the various layers of their moral cuticle, until they stood, in their own and in each other's eyes, objects of commiseration.

"There's just one thing more I wad like ta say to ye." The sergeant major's tendency to Doric was more noticeable in his moments of deeper feeling, "but it's something for you lads to give heed ta. When ye were scrammlin' up yonder, like a lot o' mavericks at a brandin', and yowlin' like a bunch o' coyotes, there was one man in the regiment who could laugh. There's lots o' animals that the Almighty made can yowl, but there's only one can laugh, and that's a mon. For God's sake, men, when ye're in a tight place, try a laugh."

For some weeks after this event the chaplain was known throughout the battalion as "the man that can laugh," and certain it is that from that day there existed between the M. O. and the chaplain a new bond of friendship.

As the ship advanced deeper into the submarine zone, the sole topic of thought and of conversation came to be the convoy. Where was that convoy anyway? While the daylight lasted, a thousand pairs of eyes swept the horizon, and the intervening spaces of tossing, blue-grey water, for the sight of a sinister periscope, or for the smudge of a friendly cruiser, and when night fell, a thousand pairs of ears listened with strained intentness for the impact of the deadly torpedo or for the signal of the protecting convoy.

While still a day and a night out from land, Barry awoke in the dim light of a misty morning, and proceeded to the deck for his constitutional. There he fell in with Captain Neil Fraser and Captain Hopeton pacing up and down.

"Come along, Pilot!" said Captain Neil, heartily, between whom and the chaplain during the last few days a cordial friendship had sprung up. "We're looking for submarines. This is the place and the time for Fritz, if he is going to get us at all."

Arm in arm they made the circle of the deck. The mist, lying like a bank upon the sea, shifted the horizon to within a thousand yards of the ship.

"I wish I knew just what lies behind that bank there," said Captain Hopeton, pointing over the bow.

For some moments they stood, peering idly into the mist.

"By Jove, there IS something there," said Barry, who had a hawk's eye.

"You've got 'em too, eh," laughed Hopeton. "I've had 'em for the last forty-eight hours. I've been 'seein' things' all night."

"But there is," insisted Barry, pointing over the port bow.

"What is it like?" asked Captain Neil, while Hopeton ran for his glass.

"I'll tell you what it's like—exactly like the eye of an oyster in its pulp. And, by Jove, there's another!" added Barry excitedly.

"I can't see anything," said Captain Neil.

"But I can," insisted Barry. "Look there, Hopeton!"

Hopeton fixed his glass upon the mist, where Barry pointed.

"You're right! There is something, and there are two of them."

"Give the Pilot the glass, Hopeton," said Neil. "He's got a good eye."

"There are two ships, boys, as I'm a sinner, but what they are, I don't know," cried Barry in a voice tense with excitement. "Here, Neil, take the glass. You know about ships."

Long and earnestly, Captain Neil held the glass in the direction indicated.

"Boys, by all that's holy, they're destroyers," he said at length in a low voice.

Even as they gazed, the two black dots rapidly took shape, growing out of the mist into two sea monsters, all head and shoulders, boring through the seas, each flinging high a huge comb of white spray, and with an indescribable suggestion of arrogant, resistless power, bearing down upon the ship at furious speed.

"Destroyers!" shouted Captain Neil, in a voice that rang through the ship. "By gad, destroyers!"

There was no question of friend or foe; only Great Britain's navy rode over those seas immune.

Upon every hand the word was caught up and passed along. In a marvellously short space of time, the rails, the boats, the rigging, all the points of vantage were thronged with men, roaring, waving, cheering, like mad.

With undiminished speed, each enveloped in its cloud of spray, the destroyers came, one on each side, rushed foaming past, swept in a circle around the ship and took their stations alongside, riding quietly at half speed like bulldogs tugging at a leash.

"Great heavens, what a sight!" At the croak in Hopeton's voice, the others turned and looked at him.

"You've got it too, eh!" said Captain Neil, clearing his own throat.

"I've got something, God knows!" answered Hopeton, wiping his eyes.

"I, too," said Barry, swallowing the proverbial lump. "Those little—little—"

"Bulldogs," suggested Hopeton.

"Bulldog pups," said Captain Neil.

"That's it," said Barry. "That's what they are, little bulldog pups, got me by the throat all right."

"Me, too, by gad!" said Captain Neil. "I should have howled out loud in another minute."

"Listen to the boys!" cried Barry.

From end to end of the ship rose one continuous roar, "Good old Navy! Good old John Bull!" while Hopeton, openly abandoning the traditional reserve and self-control supposed to be a characteristic of the English public school boy, climbed upon the rail and, hanging by a stanchion with one hand, and with the other frantically waving his cap over his head, continued to shout:

"England! England! England forever!"

Then above the cheering cries was heard the battalion band, and from a thousand throats in solemn chant there rose the Empire's national anthem, "God Save the King."

That night they steamed into old Plymouth town, and the following morning were anchored safe at Devonport dock. Strict orders held the officers and men on board ship until arrangements for debarkation should be completed, but to Barry and the doctor, the Commanding Officer gave shore leave for an hour.

"And I would suggest," he said, "that you go and have a talk with that old boy walking up and down the dock there. Yarn to him about Canada, he's wild to know about it."

The old naval officer was indeed "wild to know about Canada," so that the greater part of their shore leave was spent in answering his questions, and eager though he was to explore the old historic town, before Barry knew it, he was in the full tide of a glowing description of his own Province of Alberta, extolling its great ranches, its sweeping valleys, its immense resources.

"And to think you are all British out there," exclaimed the old salt.

"We're all British, of course," replied Barry, "but not all from Britain."

"I know, I know," said the officer, "but that only makes it more wonderful."

"Wonderful! Why, why should it be wonderful?"

"Yes, wonderful. Oh, you Canadians," cried the old salt, impulsively stretching out his hand to Barry. "You Canadians!"

Surprised, Barry glanced at his face. Those hard blue eyes were brimming with tears; the leatherlike skin was working curiously about the mouth.

"Why, sir, I don't quite understand what you mean," said Barry.

"No, and you never will. Think of it, rushing three thousand miles—"

"Five thousand for some of us," interrupted Barry.

"Fancy that! Rushing five thousand miles in this way, to help old mother England, and all of your own free will. We didn't ask it of you. Though, by heaven, we're grateful for it. I find it difficult, sir, to speak quietly of this."

Not until that moment had Barry caught the British point of view. To him, as to all Canadians, it had only been a perfectly reasonable and natural thing that when the Empire was threatened, they should spring into the fight. They saw nothing heroic in that. They were doing their simple duty.

"But think of the wonder of it," said the naval officer again, "that Canada should feel in that way its response to the call of the blood."

The old man's lips were still quivering.

"That is true, sir," said the M. O., joining in the talk, "but there is something more. Frankly, my opinion is that the biggest thing, sir, with some of us in Canada, is not that the motherland was in need of help, though, of course, we all feel that, but that the freedom of the world is threatened, and that Canada, as one of the free nations of the world, must do her part in its defence."

"A fine spirit," said the old gentleman.

"This fight," continued the M. O., "is ours, you see, as well as yours, and we hate a bully."

The old salt swore a great oath, and said:

"You are pups of the old breed, and you run true to type. I'm glad to know you, gentlemen," he continued, shaking them warmly by the hand.

After they had gone a few steps he called Barry back to him.

"That's my card, sir. I should like you to come to see me in London sometime when you are on leave."

Barry glanced at the card and read, "Commander Howard Vincent, R. N. R."

"It was very decent of the old boy," he said to the Commanding Officer afterwards, when recounting the interview. "I don't suppose I'll ever use the card, but I do think he really meant it."

"Meant it," exclaimed the Commanding Officer. "Why, Dunbar, I'm an old country man, and I know. Make no mistake. These people, and especially these naval people, do not throw their cards loosely about. You will undoubtedly hear from him."

"It's not likely," replied Barry, "but the old gentleman is great stuff, all right."

During the long, sunny spring day, their dinky little train whisked them briskly through the sweet and restful beauty of the English southern counties. To these men, however, from the wide sunbaked, windswept plains of western Canada, the English landscape suggested a dainty picture, done in soft greys and greens, with here and there a vivid splash of colour, where the rich red soil broke through the green. But its tiny fields set off with hedges, and lines of trees, its little, clean-swept villages, with their picturesque church spires, its parks with deer that actually stood still to look at you, its splendid manor houses, and, at rare intervals, its turreted castles, gave these men, fresh from the raw, unmeasured and unmade west, a sense of unreality. To them it seemed a toy landscape for children to play with, but, as they passed through the big towns and cities with their tall, clustering chimneys, their crowding populations, with unmistakable evidences of great wealth, their shipping, where the harbours bit into the red coast line, there began to waken in them the thought that this tiny England, so beautifully finished, and so neatly adorned, was something mightier than they had ever known.

In these tiny fields, in these clean swept villages, in these manor houses, in these castles, in factory and in shipyard, were struck deep the roots of an England whose greatness they had never yet guessed.

The next afternoon brought them to the great military camp at Shorncliffe, in a misty rain, hungry, for their rations had been exhausted early in the day, weary from ship and train travel, and eager to get their feet once again on mother earth.

At the little station they were kept waiting in a pouring rain for something to happen, they knew not what. The R. T. O., a young Imperial officer, blase with his ten months of war in England, had some occult reason for delaying their departure. So, while the night grew every moment wetter and darker, the men sat on their kit-bags or found such shelter as they could in the tiny station, or in the lee of the "goods trains" blocking the railroad tracks, growing more indignant and more disgusted with the British high command, the war in general, and registering with increasing intensity vows of vengeance against the Kaiser, who, in the last analysis, they considered responsible for their misery.

At length the "brass hat" for whom they had been waiting appeared upon the scene, not in the slightest degree apologetic, but very businesslike, and with a highly emphasised military manner. After a little conversation between the brass hat and their Commanding Officer, the latter gave the command and off they set in the darkness for their first route march on English soil.

Through muddy roads and lanes, over fields, slushy and sodden, up hill and down dale, they plodded steadily along. At the rear of the column marched Barry with the M. O.

Long before they reached their destination, their conversation had given out, the M. O. sucking sullenly at his pipe, the bowl upside down. The rear end of the column was very frayed and straggling. Why it is that a perfectly fit company will invariably fray out if placed at the rear of a marching column, no military expert has quite succeeded in satisfactorily explaining.

As he tramped along in the dark by the side of the road, the M. O. stumbled over a soldier sitting upon the soggy bank.

"Who are you?" he inquired shortly.

"Corporal Thom, sir."

"What's the matter with you?"

"I'm all in, sir. I've been sick all day, sir."

"Why didn't you report sick, then? Can't you get on?"

"I don't think so, sir. Not for a while, at least."

"Have you any pain, any nausea?"

"No, sir, I'm just all in."

"Do you know our route?"

"Yes, sir, I've got the turns down."

"Well, come along then when you can. I'll send back a waggon later, but don't wait for that."

"Yes, sir," said Corporal Thom.

"Come on, Dunbar! We'll send a waggon back for these stragglers. There will be a good many of them before long."

"You go on, doc. I'll come later," said Barry. "I'll catch up to you."

But the M. O., at the various halts, waited in vain for the chaplain to appear.

On arriving at the camp, after a long struggle, he succeeded in sending back an Army Service waggon to bring in the stragglers, but just as the waggon was about to leave, he heard coming up the road, a party stepping out briskly to the music of their own whistling. In the rear of the party marched the chaplain, laden down with one man's rifle and another man's kit-bag.

"They're all here, sir," said Corporal Thom to the M. O., with a distinct note of triumph in his voice. "All here, sir," he repeated, as he observed the sergeant major standing at the doctor's side.

"Well done, corporal," said the sergeant major. "You brought 'em all in? That means that no man has fallen out on our first march in this country."

The corporal made no reply, but later on, he explained the matter to the sergeant major.

"It's that Sky Pilot of ours, sir," he said. "Blowed if he'd let us fall out."

"Kept you marching, eh?"

"No, it's his chocolate and his jaw, but more his jaw than his chocolate. He's got lots of both. I was all in. I'd been sick all day in the train. Couldn't eat a bite. Well, the first thing, he gives me a cake of his chocolate. Then he sets himself down in the mud beside me, and me wishin' all the time he'd go on and leave me for the waggon to pick up. Then he gives me a cigarette, and then he begins to talk."

"Talk, what about?"

"Damned if I know, but the first thing I knew I was tellin' him about the broncho bustin',—that's my job, you know—and how I won out from Nigger Jake in the Calgary Stampede, until I was that stuck on myself that I said: 'Well, sir, we'd better get a move on,' and up he gets with my kit-bag on his back. By and by, we picks up another lame duck and then another, feedin' 'em with chocolate and slingin' his jaw, and when we was at the limit, he halts us outside one of them stone shacks and knocks at the door. 'No soldiers here,' snaps the red-headed angel, shuttin' the door right in his face. Then he opens the door and steps right in where she could see him, and starts to talk to her, and us listening out in the rain. Say! In fifteen minutes we was all standin' up to a feed of coffee and buns, and then he gets Harry Hobbs whistlin' and singin', and derned if we couldn't have marched to Berlin. Say! He's a good one, ain't no quitter, and he won't let nobody else be a quitter."

And thus it came that with Corporal Thom and his derelicts the chaplain marched into a new place in the esteem of the men of his battalion, and of its sergeant major.

But of this, of course, Barry had no knowledge. He knew that he had made some little progress into the confidence of both officers and men in his battalion. He had made, too, some firm friendships which had relieved, to a certain extent, the sense of isolation and loneliness that had made his first months with the battalion so appalling. But there still remained the sense of failure inasfar as his specific duty as chaplain was concerned.

The experiences of the first weeks in England only served to deepen in him the conviction that his influence on the men against the evils which were their especial snare was as the wind against the incoming tide, beating in from the North Sea. He could make a ripple, a certain amount of fussy noise, but the tide of temptation rolled steadily onward, unchecked in its flow.

The old temptations to profanity, drink and lust, that had haunted the soldiers' steps at home, were found to be lying in wait for them here and in aggravated form. True, in the mess and in his presence among the men there was less profanity than there had been at the first, but it filled him with a kind of rage to feel that this change was due to no sense of the evil of the habit, but solely to an unwillingness to give offence to one whom many of them were coming to regard with respect and some even with affection.

"I hate that," he said to the M. O., to whom he would occasionally unburden his soul. "You'd think I was a kind of policeman over their morals."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," said the M. O., to whom the habit of profanity was a very venial sin. "You ought to be mighty glad that your presence does act as a kind of moral prophylactic. And it does, I assure you. I confess that since I have come to be associated with you, I am conscious of a very real, and at times, distressing limitation of my vocabulary. I may not be more virtuous, but certainly I am more respectable."

This sentiment, however, brought little comfort to the chaplain.

"I am not a policeman," he protested, "and I am not going to play policeman to these men. I notice them shut up when I come around, but I know quite well that they turn themselves loose when I pass on, and that they feel much more comfortable. I am not and will not be their policeman."

"What then would you be?" inquired the M. O.

Barry pondered this question for some time.

"To tell the truth," he said, at length, "I confess, I don't quite know. I wish I did, doc, on my soul. One thing I do know, the men are no better here in their morals than they were at home."

"Better? They are worse, by Jove!" exclaimed the M. O. "Look at the daily crime-sheet! Look at that daily orderly room parade. It's something fierce, and it's getting worse."

"The wet canteen?" inquired Barry, who had lost prestige with some in the battalion by reason of the strenuous fight he had made against its introduction since coming to England. Not that the men cared so much for their liquor, but they resented the idea that they were denied privileges enjoyed by other battalions.

"The wet canteen?" echoed the doctor. "No, you know I opposed, as you did, the introduction of the wet canteen, although not upon the same grounds. I regard it as a perfect nuisance in camp. It is the centre of every disorder, it is subversive of discipline; it materially increases my sick parade. But it is not the wet canteen that is chiefly responsible for the growing crime-sheet and orderly room parade. It is those damned—I don't apologise—"

"Please don't. Say it again!" exclaimed Barry fervently.

"Those damned pubs," continued the M. O., "stuck at every crossroads in this country. They're the cause of ninety per cent. of the drunkenness in our army, and more than that, I want to give you another bit of information that came out at our M. O. conference this week, namely that these pubs account for ninety per cent. of our tent hospital cases."

"Ninety per cent., doctor? That's surely high."

"I would have said so, but I am giving you the unanimous verdict of the twenty-six medical officers at the conference. Cut out the damned beer—and you know I take my share of it—cut out the beer and ninety per cent. of the venereal disease goes. With me it is not a question of morality but of efficiency." Here the M. O. sprang from his chair and began to pace the hut. "This is the one thing in this army business that makes me wild. We come over here to fight—these boys are willing to fight—and by gad they will fight! They go out for a walk, they have a few beers together, their inhibitory powers are paralysed, opportunity comes their way, and they wake up a little later diseased. God in heaven! I love this dear old England, and I would die for her if need be, but may God Almighty damn her public houses, and all the infernal and vicious customs which they nourish."

"Thank you, doctor, go right on," said Barry. "I was at the tent hospital this week for the first time. Ever since, I have been wanting to say what you have said just now. But what did your M. O. conference do about it?"

"What could we do? The Home Office blocks the way. Well, I've got that off my stomach, and I feel better," added the M. O., with a slight laugh.

"But, doc, I want to say this," said Barry. "I don't believe that the percentage of men who go in for this sort of thing is large. I've been making inquiries from our chaplains and they all agree that we have a mighty fine and clean body of men in our Canadian army."

"Right you are! Of course, it is only a small percentage, a very small percentage—a much smaller percentage than in our civilian population at home. But small as it is, it is just that much too many. Hell and blazes! These men are soldiers. They have left their homes, and their folks, to fight. Their people—their people are the best in our land. There's that young Pentland. A finer young chap never threw a leg over a broncho. He's in that tent hospital to-night. I know his mother. Three sons she has given. Oh, damn it all," the doctor's voice broke at this point. "I can't speak quietly. Their mothers have given them up, to death, if need be, but not to this rotten, damnable disease. Look here, Pilot!" The doctor pointed a shaking and accusing finger at Barry. "You have often spoken against this thing, but next time you break loose, give them merry hell over it. You can't make it too hot."

Long Barry sat silent overborne by the fury of the doctor's passionate indictment.

"Cheer up, old chap!" said the doctor, when his wrath had somewhat subsided. "We'll lick the Kaiser and beat the devil yet."

"But, doctor, what can I do?" implored Barry. "That's part of my job, surely. Part of the job of the chaplain service, I mean. Oh, that is the ghastly tragedy of this work of mine. Somehow I can't get at it. These evils exist. I can speak against them and make enemies, but the things go on just as before."

"Don't you believe it, Pilot, not quite as before. Behold how you have already checked my profanity. Even the old man has pretty much cut it out at mess. You don't know where they would have been but for you. Cheer up! Our wings may not be visible but, on the other hand, there are no signs of horns and hoofs."

"Doctor, one thing I'll do," cried Barry, with a sudden inspiration "We've a meeting of the chaplains' corps to-morrow. I'll give them your speech."

"Expurgated edition, I hope," said the M. O.

"No, I'll put in every damn I can remember, and, if need be, a few more."

"Lord, I'd like to be there, old boy!" said the doctor, fervently.

Barry was as good as his word. At the meeting of the chaplains' corps, the time was mainly taken up in routine business, dealing with arrangements for religious services at the various camps within the area.

At the close of the meeting, however, one of the chaplains rose and announced that he had a matter to bring to the attention of the corps—a matter of the highest importance, which demanded their immediate and serious attention, and which they dared not any longer ignore. It was the matter of venereal disease in our Canadian army.

His statistics and illustrative incidents gripped hard the hearts of the men present. He closed with a demand that steps be taken that day to deal with the situation. The Canadian people had entrusted them with the care of their boys' souls. "Their souls," he cried. "I say our first duty is to their bodies. I am not saying the percentage is large. It is not as large as in the civilian population at home. But why any? We must care for these men's bodies. They fight with their bodies."

His last sentence struck Barry to the heart. It recalled his own sermon, spoken in Edmonton to his father's battalion. Immediately he was on his feet, and without preface or apology, reproduced as far as he was able the M. O.'s speech of the previous night, and that without expurgation.

There was but little discussion. There was but one opinion. It was resolved to call a joint meeting of the chaplains and medical officers to decide upon a course of action.

As Barry was leaving the meeting, the senior chaplain, an old Anglican clergyman, with a saintly face and a smile that set one's tenderest emotions astir, came to him, and putting his hand affectionately upon his shoulder, said:

"And how is your work going, my dear fellow?"

It was to Barry as if his father's hand were upon his shoulder, and before he was aware he was pouring out the miserable story of his own sad failure as a chaplain.

"Poor boy! Poor boy!" the old gentleman kept saying. "I know how you feel. Just so, just so!"

When Barry had finished relieving his heart of the burden that had so long lain upon it, the old gentleman took him by the hand and said:

"My dear fellow, remember they are far from home. These boys need their mothers. They sorely need their mothers! And, my boy, they need God. And they need you. Good-bye!"

Barry came away with a warm feeling in his heart, and in it a new purpose and resolve. No longer would he be a policeman to his men. He would try to forget their faults, and to remember only how sorely they needed their mothers and their God, and that they needed him, too.

He found the camp thrilling with great news, glorious news. The day so long awaited had come. The battalion was under orders for France. At that very moment there was an officers' meeting in the orderly room.

As Barry entered the room, the O. C. was closing his speech.

Barry was immediately conscious of a new tone, a new spirit, in the colonel's words. He spoke with a new sense of responsibility, and what more than anything else arrested Barry's attention, with a new sense of brotherhood toward his officers.

"In closing what I have to say, gentlemen, let me make a confession. I am not satisfied with the battalion, nor with my officers. I am not satisfied with myself. I remember being indignant at the report sent in by the inspecting officer concerning this battalion. I thought he was unfair and unduly severe. I believe I said so. Gentlemen, I was wrong. Since that time I have seen work in some regiments of the Imperial Service, and especially, I have seen the work on the front line. I think I know now what discipline means. Discipline, gentlemen, is the thing that saves an army from disaster. Some things we must cut out absolutely. Whatever unfits for service must go. I saw a soldier, a Canadian soldier, shot at the front for being intoxicated. I pray God, I may never see the like again. At this point, I wish to express my appreciation of the work of our chaplain, who I am glad to see has just come in. He has stood for the right thing among us, and has materially helped in the discipline and efficiency of this battalion. Gentlemen, you have your orders. Let there be no failure. Obedience is demanded, not excuses. Gentlemen, carry on!"

Barry hurried away to his hut. The words of his colonel had lifted him out of his despair. He had not then so desperately failed. His colonel had found something in him to approve. And France was before him! There was still a chance for service. The boys would need him there.



CHAPTER X

FRANCE

"France, sunny France!" The tone carried concentrated bitterness and disgust. "One cursed fraud after another in this war."

"Cheer up!" said Barry. "There's worse to come—perhaps better. This rain is beastly, but the clouds will pass, and the sun will shine again, for in spite of the rain this IS 'sunny France.' There's a little homily for you," said Barry, "and for myself as well, for I assure you this combination of mal de mer and sleet makes one feel rotten."

"Everything is rotten," grumbled Duff, gazing gloomily through the drizzling rain at the rugged outline of wharves that marked the Boulogne docks.

"Look at this," cried Duff, sweeping his hand toward the deck. "You would think this stuff was shot out of the blower of a threshing machine—soldier's baggage, kits, quartermaster's stores—and this is a military organisation. Good Lord!"

"Lieutenant Duff! Is Lieutenant Duff here?" It was the O. C.'s voice.

"Yes, sir," said Duff, going forward and saluting.

"Mr. Duff, I wish you to take charge of the Transport for the present. Lieutenant Bonner is quite useless—helpless, I mean. You will find Sergeant Mackay a reliable man. Sorry I couldn't give you longer notice. I think, however, you are the man for the job."

"I'll do my best, sir," said Duff, saluting, as the O. C. turned away.

"What did I tell you, Duff?" said Barry. "You certainly are in for it, and you have my sympathy."

"Sympathy! Don't you worry about me," said Duff. "This is just the kind of thing I like. I haven't run a gang of navvies in the Crow's Nest Pass for nothing. You watch my smoke. But, one word, Pilot! When you see me bearing down, full steam ahead, give me room! I'll make this go or bust something." Then in a burst of confidence, he took Barry by the arm, and added in a low voice: "And if I live, Pilot, I'll be running something in this war bigger than the Transport of a battalion before I'm done."

Barry let his eyes run over the powerful figure, the rugged, passionate face, lit up now with gleaming eyes, and said:

"I believe you, Duff. Meantime, I'll watch your smoke."

"Do!" replied Duff with superb self-confidence. And it was worth while during the next hour to watch Duff evolve order out of chaos. First of all he put into his men and into his sergeant the fear of death. But he did more than that. He breathed into them something of his own spirit of invincible determination. He had them springing at his snappy orders with an eagerness that was in itself the larger half of obedience, and as they obeyed they became conscious that they were working under the direction of a brain that had a perfected plan of action, and that held its details firmly in its grasp.

Not only did Duff show himself a master of organisation and control, but in a critical moment he himself leaped into the breach, and did the thing that balked his men. Did a heavy transport wagon jamb at the gangway, holding up the traffic, with a spring, Duff was at the wheel. A heave of his mighty shoulders, and the wagon went roaring down the gangway. Did a horse, stupid with terror, from its unusual surroundings, balk, Duff had a "twitch" on its upper lip, and before it knew what awful thing had gripped it, the horse was lifted clear out of its tracks, and was on its way to the dock.

Before he had cleared the ship, Duff had a circle of admirers about him, gazing as if at a circus.

"An energetic officer you have there," said the brass hat standing beside the colonel.

"A new man. This is his first time on the transport," replied the colonel.

"Quite remarkable! Quite remarkable!" exclaimed the brass hat. "That unloading must have been done in record time, and in spite of quite unusual conditions."

The boat being clear and the loads made up, Duff approached the Commanding Officer.

"All ready, sir," he announced. "Shall we move off? I should like to get a start. The roads will be almost impassable, I'm afraid."

"Do you know the route?" asked the Commanding Officer.

"Yes, sir, I have it here."

"All right, go ahead, Duff. A mighty good piece of work you have done there."

"Thank you, sir," said Duff, saluting and turning away.

"Move off, there," he shouted to the leading team.

The driver started the team but they slipped, plunged and fell heavily. Duff was at their heads before any other man could move.

"Get hold here, men," he yelled. "Take hold of that horse. What are you afraid of?" he cried to a groom who was gingerly approaching the struggling animal. "Now then, all together!"

When he had the team on their feet again, he said to the grooms standing at their heads, "Jump up on the horses' backs; that will help the them to hold their footing."

There was some slight hesitation on the part of the grooms.

"Come on!" he roared, and striding to the horse nearest him, he flung himself upon its back.

A groom mounted the other, and once more a start was made, but they had not gone more than a few steps, when the groom's horse fell heavily, and rolled over on its side, pinning the unfortunate man beneath him.

There was a shriek of agony. In an instant Duff was off his horse and at the head of the fallen animal.

"Medical officer here!" he shouted. "Now then, two of you men. One of you pull out that man while we lift."

The horse's head and shoulders were lifted clear, and the injured man was pulled out of danger.

"Take him out of the way, please, doctor," said Duff, to the M. O., who was examining the groom.

"Sergeant!"

His sergeant literally sprang to his side.

"Get me a dozen bags," he said.

"Bags, sir? I don't know where—"

"Bags," repeated Duff savagely. "Canvas, anything to wrap around these horses' feet."

The sergeant without further words plunged into the darkness, returning almost immediately with half a dozen bags.

"Thanks, sergeant; that's the way to move. Now get some more!"

Under Duff's directions the bags were tied about the feet of the horses, thus enabling them to hold their footing, and the transport moved off in the darkness.

Returning from the disposing of the injured man, the M. O. found Barry shivering with the cold, and weak from his recent attack of seasickness.

"There will be no end of a sick parade to-morrow morning, and you'll be one of them," grumbled the M. O. "If they don't move them out of here soon they'll take them away in ambulances. There are a hundred men at this moment fit to go to hospital, but the O. C. won't hear of it."

"Doc, they ought to have something hot. The kitchens are left behind, I understand. Let me have a couple of your men, and let me see what I can do."

"It's no use, I've tried all the hotels about here. They're full up."

"No harm trying, doc," said Barry, and off he went.

But he found the hotels full up, as the doctor had said. After much inquiry, he found his way to the Y. M. C. A. A cheerful but sleepy secretary, half dead with the fatigue of a heavy day ministering to soldiers "going up the line," could offer him no help at all.

"Do you mean to say that there is no place in this town," said Barry desperately, "where a sick man can get a dish of coffee?"

"Sick man!" cried the secretary. "Why, certainly! Why not try the R. A. M. C.? They've a hospital half a mile up the street. They will certainly help you out. I'll come with you."

"No, you don't," said Barry. "You go back to bed. I'll find the place."

Half a mile up the street, as the secretary had said, Barry came upon the flaring lantern of the R. A. M. C., at the entrance to a huge warehouse, the gate of which stood wide open.

Entering the courtyard, Barry found a group of men about a blazing fire.

"May I see the officer in charge?" he asked, approaching the group.

The men glanced at his rank badges.

"Yes, sir," said a sergeant, clicking his heels smartly. "Can I do anything for you, sir?"

"Thank you," said Barry, and told him his wants.

"We have plenty of biscuits," said the sergeant, "and coffee, too. You are welcome to all you can carry, but I don't see how we can do any more for you. But would you like to see the officer in charge, sir?"

"Thank you," said Barry, and together they passed into another room.

But the officer was engaged elsewhere. While they were discussing the matter, a door opened, and a young girl dressed in the uniform of a V. A. D. (Voluntary Aid Detachment) appeared.

"What is it, sergeant?" she inquired, in a soft but rather tired voice.

The sergeant explained, while she listened with mild interest. Then Barry took up the tale, and proceeded to dilate upon the wretched condition of his comrades, out in the icy rain. But his story moved the V. A. D. not at all. She had seen too much of the real misery and horrors of war. Barry began to feel discouraged, and indeed a little ashamed of himself.

"You see, we have just come over," he said in an apologetic tone, "and we don't know much about war yet."

"You are Canadians?" cried the girl, a new interest dawning in her eyes. As she came into the light, Barry noticed that they were brown, and that they were very lustrous.

"I love the Canadians," she exclaimed. "My brother was a liaison artillery officer at Ypres; with them, at the time of the gas, you know. He liked them immensely." Her voice was soft and sad.

Unconsciously Barry let his eyes fall to the black band on her arm.

"He was with the Canadians, too, when he was killed at Armentieres, three months ago."

"Killed!" exclaimed Barry. "Oh, I am so sorry for you."

"I had two brothers," she went on, in her gentle even tone. "One was killed at Landrecies, on the retreat from Mons, you know."

"No," said Barry, "I'm afraid I don't know about it. Tell me!"

"It was a great fight," said the girl. "Oh, a splendid fight!" A ring came into her voice and a little colour into her cheek. "They tried to rush our men, but they couldn't. My oldest brother was there in charge of a machine gun section. The machine guns did wonderful work. The colonel came to tell us about it. He said it was very fine." There was no sign of tears in her eyes, nor tremor in her voice, only tenderness and pride.

"And your mother is alone now?" inquired Barry.

"Oh, we gave up our house to the government for a hospital. You see, father was in munitions. He's too old for active service, and mother is matron in the hospital. She was very unwilling that I should come over here. She said I was far too young, but of course that's quite nonsense. So you see, we are all in it."

"It is perfectly amazing," said Barry. "You British women are wonderful!"

The brown eyes opened a little wider.

"Wonderful? Why, what else could we do? But the Canadians! I think they're wonderful, coming all this way to fight."

"I can't see that," said Barry. "That's what that old naval boy at Devonport said, but I can't see that it's anything wonderful that we should fight for our Empire."

"Devonport! A naval officer!" The girl lost her calm. She became excited. "What was his name?"

"I have his card here," said Barry, taking out his pocket book and handing her the card.

"My uncle!" she cried. "Why, how perfectly splendid!" offering Barry her hand. "Why, we're really introduced. Then you're the man that Uncle Howard—" She stopped abruptly, a flush on her cheek. Then she turned to the N. C. O. "Yes, sergeant, that will do," as the man brought half a dozen large biscuit cans and as many large bottles of prepared coffee.

As Barry's eyes fell upon the biscuit cans an idea came to him.

"Will these cans hold water?" he inquired.

"Yes, sir," replied the sergeant.

"Then, we're fixed," cried Barry, in high delight. "This is perfectly fine."

"What do you mean?" asked the girl.

"We'll dump the biscuits, and boil the coffee in the cans. I haven't camped on the Athabasca for nothing. Now we're all right and I suppose we must go."

The V. A. D. hesitated a moment, then she took the sergeant to one side, and entered into earnest and persuasive talk with him.

"It's against regulations, miss," Barry heard him say, "and besides, you know, we're expecting a hospital train any minute, and every car will be needed."

"Then I'll take my own car," she said. "It's all ready and has the chains on, sergeant, I think."

"Yes, it's quite ready, but you will get me into trouble, miss."

"Then, I'll get you out again. Load those things in, while I run and change—I'm going to drive you out to your camp," she said to Barry as she hurried away.

The sergeant shook his head as he looked after her.

"She's a thoroughbred, sir," he said. "We jump when she asks us for anything. She's a real blooded one; not like some, sir—like some of them fullrigged ones. They keep 'er 'oppin'."

"Fullrigged ones?" inquired Barry.

"Them nurses, I mean, sir. They loves to 'awe them—them young 'Vaddies,' as we call them—V. A. D., you know, sir. They keeps 'em a 'oppin' proper—scrubbin' floors, runnin' messages, but Miss Vincent, she mostly drives a car."

While the sergeant was dilating upon the virtues and excellences of the young V. A. D., his men ran out her car, and packed into it the biscuit tins and coffee. By the time the sergeant was ready she was back, dressed in a chauffeur's uniform.

Barry had thought her charming in her V. A. D. dress, but in her uniform she was bewitching. He noticed that her hair clustered in tiny ringlets about her natty little cap, in quite a maddening way. One vagrant curl over her ear had a particular fascination for his eyes. He felt it ought to be tucked in just a shade. He was conscious of an almost irresistible desire to do the tucking in. What would happen if—

"Well, are you ready?" inquired the girl in a quick, businesslike tone.

"What? Oh, yes," said Barry, recalled to the business of the moment.

During the drive the girl gave her whole attention to her wheel, as indeed was necessary, for the road was dangerously slippery, and she drove without lights through the black night. Barry kept up an endless stream of talk, set going by her command, as she took her place at the wheel. "Now tell me about Canada. I can listen, but I can't talk."

In the full tide of his most eloquent passages, Barry found himself growing incoherent at times, for his mind was in a state of oscillation between the wonderful and lustrous qualities of the brown eyes that he remembered flashing upon him in the light of the fire, and that maddening little curl over the girl's ear.

In an unbelievably short time, so it seemed to him, they came upon the rear of a marching column.

"These are your men, I fancy," she said, "and this will be your camp on the left; I know it well. I've often been here."

She swung the car off the road into an open field, set out with tents, and brought the car to a stop beside an old ruined factory.

"This, I believe, will be the best place for your purpose," she said, and sprang from her seat, and ran to the ruin, flashing her torchlight before her. "Here you are," she said. "This will be just the thing."

Barry followed her a few steps down into the long, stone-flagged cellar.

"Splendid! This is the very thing," he cried enthusiastically. "You are really the most wonderful person."

"Now get your stuff in here," she ordered. "But what will you do for wood? There is always water," she added, "in some tanks further on. Come, I'll show you."

Barry followed her in growing amazement and admiration at her prompt efficiency.

"Now then, there are your tanks," she said. "As for wood, I don't know what you will do, but there is a garden paling a little further on, and, of course—"

"Don't worry about that," said Barry.

"I won't," with a gay laugh; "I know you Canadians, you see."

Together they returned to the car.

Before she mounted to her seat she turned to Barry, and offered him her hand and said: "I think it is perfectly ripping that we were introduced in this way. Though I don't know your name yet," she added shyly.

"Awfully stupid of me," said Barry, and he gave her his name, adding that of the regiment, and his rank.

"Good-bye, then," she said, climbing into her car, and starting her engine.

"But," said Barry, "I must see you safely back."

She laughed a scornful but, as Barry thought, a most delicious little laugh.

"Nonsense! We don't do that sort of thing here, you know. We're on our own."

A little silence fell between them.

"When does your battalion march?" she asked abruptly.

"Perhaps to-morrow. I don't know."

"If you do go then," she said, with again that little touch of shyness, "I suppose I won't see you again."

"See you again," exclaimed Barry, his tone indicating that the possibility of such a calamity was unthinkable, "why, of course I shall see you again. I must see you again—I—I—I just must see you again."

"Good night, then," she said in a soft, hurried voice, throwing in her clutch.

Barry stood listening in the dark to the hum of her engine, growing more faint every moment.

"Some girl, eh?" said a voice. At his side he saw Harry Hobbs. Barry turned sharply upon him.

"Now then, Hobbs, some wood and we will get a fire going and look lively! And, Hobbs, I believe there's a fence about fifty yards down there, which you might find useful. Now move. Quick!" Unconsciously he tried to reproduce, in uttering the last word, Duff's tone and manner. The effect was evident immediately.

Hobbs without further words departed in the darkness. Again Barry stood listening to the hum of the engine, until he could no longer hear it in the noise and confusion of the camp, but in his heart Harry's words made music.

"Some girl, eh?"

As he stood there in the darkness, hearing that music in his heart, a voice broke in, swearing hard and deep oaths. It was the M. O.

"Hello, doc, my boy; come here," cried Barry.

The M. O. approached. He was in a state of rage that rendered coherent speech impossible.

"Oh, quit it, doc. Let me show you something."

He led him into the ruin, where his spoils were cached.

"Biscuits, my boy, and coffee. Hold on! Listen! I'm going to get a fire going here and in twenty minutes there'll be six cans of fragrant delicious coffee, boiling hot."

"Why, how the—"

"Doc, don't talk! Listen to me! You round up your sick men, and bring them quietly over here. I don't know how many I can supply, but at least, I think, a hundred."

"Why, how the devil—?"

"Go on; I haven't time to talk to you. Get busy!"

Working by flashlight, the men cut open the tins, dumped the biscuits on a blanket spread in a corner of the cellar, while Barry made preparations for a fire.

"Here, Hobbs, you punch two holes in these cans, just an inch from the top."

Soon the fire was blazing cheerily. In its light Barry was searching through the ruin.

"By Jove," he shouted, "the very thing. Just made for us."

He pulled out a long steel rod from a heap of rubbish and ran with it to the fire.

"Here, boys, punch a hole in this wall. Now then, for the cans. String them on this rod."

In twenty minutes the coffee was ready.

"How is it?" he inquired anxiously, handing a mess tin full to one of his men.

The boy tasted it.

"Like mother made," he said, with a grin. "Gee, but it's good."

At that moment the doctor appeared at the cellar door.

"I say, old chap," he said, "there will be a riot here in fifteen minutes. That coffee smells the whole camp."

"Bring 'em along, doc. The sick chaps first. By Jove, here's the sergeant major himself."

"What's all this?" inquired the sergeant major in his gruffest voice. "Who's responsible for this fire?"

"Coffee, sergeant major?" answered Barry, handing him a tin full.

"But what—?"

"Drink it first, sergeant major."

The sergeant major took the mess tin and tasted the coffee.

"Well, this IS fine," he declared, "and it's what the boys want. But this fire is against orders, sir. I ought to have it put out."

"You will have it put out over my dead body, sergeant major," cried the M. O.

"And mine," added Barry.

"By gad, we'll chance the zeps, sir," said the sergeant major. "This freezin' rain will kill more men than a bomb. Bring in your men, sir," he added to the M. O. "But I must see the O. C."

The sergeant major's devotion to military discipline was struggling hard with his humanity, which, under his rugged exterior, beat warm in his heart.

"Why bother with the O. C.?" said the M. D.

"But I must see him," insisted the sergeant major.

He had not far to go to attain his purpose.

"Hello! What the devil is this?" exclaimed a loud voice at the door.

"By gad, it's the old man himself," muttered the M. O. to Barry. "Now look out for ructions."

In came the O. C., followed by a brass hat. Barry went forward with a steaming tin of coffee.

"Sorry our china hasn't arrived yet, sir," he said cheerfully, "but the coffee isn't bad, the boys say."

"Why, it's you, Dunbar," said the colonel, peering into his face, and shaking the rain drops from his coat. "I might have guessed that you'd be in it. Where there's any trouble," he continued, turning to the brass hat at his side, "you may be quite sure that the Pilot or the M. O. here will be in it. By Jove, this coffee goes to the right spot. Have a cup, major?" he said as Barry brought a second tin.

"It's against regulations, you know," said the major, taking the mess tin gingerly. "Fires are quite forbidden. Air raids, and that sort of thing, don't you know."

"Oh, hang it all, major," cried the O. C. "The coffee is fine, and my men will be a lot better for it. This camp of yours, anyway, is no place for human beings, and especially for men straight off the boat. As for me, I'm devilish glad to get this coffee. Give me another tin, Pilot."

"It's quite irregular," murmured the major, still drinking his coffee. "It's quite irregular! But I see the door is fairly well guarded against light, and perhaps—"

"I think we'll just carry on," said the colonel. "If there is any trouble, I'll assume the responsibility for it. Thank you, Pilot. Just keep guard on the light here, sergeant major."

"All right, sir. Very good, sir, we will hang up a blanket."

Meanwhile the news had spread throughout the camp, and before many minutes had passed the cellar was jammed with a crowd of men that reached through the door and out into the night. The crowd was becoming noisy and there was danger of confusion. Then the pilot climbed up on a heap of rubbish and made a little speech.

"Men," he called out, "this coffee is intended first of all for the sick men in this battalion. Those sick men must first be cared for. After that we shall distribute the coffee as far as it will go. There is plenty of water outside, and I think I have plenty of coffee. Sergeant major, I suggest that you round up these men in some sort of order."

A few sharp words of command from the sergeant major brought order out of confusion, and for two hours there filed through the cellar a continuous stream of men, each bringing an empty mess tin, and carrying it away full of hot and fragrant coffee.

By the time the men had been supplied the officers were finished with their duties, and having got word of the Pilot's coffee stall, came crowding in. One and all they were vociferous in their praise of the chaplain, voting him a "good fellow" and a "life-saver" of the highest order. But it was felt by all that Corporal Thom expressed the general consensus of opinion to his friend Timms. "That Pilot of ours," he declared, "runs a little to the narrow gauge, but in that last round up he was telling us about last Sunday there won't be the goat run for him. It's him for the baa baas, sure enough."

And though in the vernacular the corporal's words did not sound quite reverent, it was agreed that they expressed in an entirely satisfactory manner the general opinion of the battalion.

An hour later, wearied as he was, Barry crawled into his icy blankets, but with a warmer feeling in his heart than he had known since he joined the battalion. But before he had gone to sleep, there came into his mind a thought that brought him up wide awake. He had quite forgotten all about his duty as chaplain. "What a chance you had there," insisted his chaplain's conscience, "for a word that would really hearten your men. This is their first night in France. To-morrow they march up to danger and death. What a chance! And you missed it."

Barry was too weary to discuss the matter further, but as he fell asleep he said to himself, "At any rate, the boys are feeling a lot better," and in spite of his sense of failure, that thought brought him no small comfort.



CHAPTER XI

THE NEW MESSAGE

"I think," said Barry, to the M. O., "I really ought to ride down to the R. A. M. C. hospital, and tell them how the boys enjoyed the coffee last night." His face was slightly flushed, but the flush might have been due to the fact that he had been busily engaged in tying up the thongs of his bed-roll, an awkward job at times.

"Sure thing," agreed the M. O. heartily. "Indeed it's absolutely essential, and say, old chap, you might tell her how I enjoyed my coffee. She will be glad to hear about me."

Barry heaved his bed-roll at the doctor and departed.

At the R. A. M. C. Hospital the Officer Commanding, to whom he had sent in his card, gave him a cordial greeting.

"I am glad to know you, sir. We have quite a lot of your chaps here now and then, and fine fellows they seem to be. We expect a hospital train this morning, and I understand there are some Canadians among them. Rather a bad go a few days ago at St. Eloi. Heavy casualty list. Clearing stations all crowded, and so they are sending a lot down the line."

"Canadians?" asked Barry, thinking of his father. "You have not heard what unit, sir?"

"No, we only get the numbers and the character of the casualties and that sort of thing. Well, I must be off. Would you care to look around?"

"Thank you, no. We are also on the march. I simply came to tell you how very greatly our men appreciated your help last night."

"Oh, that's perfectly all right. Glad the sergeant had sense enough to do the right thing."

Barry hesitated.

"May I see—ah—the sergeant?"

"The sergeant? Why, certainly, but it's not necessary at all."

The sergeant was called and duly thanked. The R. A. M. C. officer was obviously anxious to be rid of his visitor and to get off to his duty.

Still Barry lingered.

"There was also a young lady, sir, last night," he said at length.

"A young lady?"

"Sister Vincent, sir," interjected the sergeant. "She ran them up to the camp in her car, sir. The ambulances and cars were all under orders."

"Ah! Ran you up to the camp, eh?"

"Yes, she ran us up with the biscuits and coffee. It was awfully kind of her."

"Ah!—Um!—Very good! Very good! Sergeant, call her," said the O. C. abruptly.

"I'm afraid she'd be asleep now, sir. She was on night duty, sir."

"Oh, then," said Barry, "please don't disturb her. I wouldn't think of it. If you will be kind enough, sir, to convey the thanks of the men and of myself to her."