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THE FLAG

By

HOMER GREENE


Author of
"The Unhallowed Harvest,"
"Pickett's Gap," "The Blind Brother," etc.


[Illustration]


PHILADELPHIA
GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO
PUBLISHERS




_Copyright, 1917
George W. Jacobs & Company_

_All rights reserved
Printed in U. S. A._




[Illustration: He Glared Defiantly About Him]




List of Illustrations


    He Glared Defiantly About Him                       _Frontispiece_

    Aleck Turned it Upside Down and Rightside Up,
    But Failed to Find the Place                        _Facing p. 54_

    Into the Face of Death He Led the Remnant of
    His Brave Platoon                                       "      274

    The French Hospital's Greeting to the
    American Colonel                                        "      316




THE FLAG

CHAPTER I


Snow everywhere; freshly fallen, white and beautiful. It lay unsullied
on the village roofs, and, trampled but not yet soiled, in the village
streets. The spruce trees on the lawn at Bannerhall were weighted with
it, and on the lawn itself it rested, like an ermine blanket, soft and
satisfying. Down the steps of the porch that stretched across the
front of the mansion, a boy ran, whistling, to the street.

He was slender and wiry, agile and sure-footed. He had barely reached
the gate when the front door of the square, stately old brick house
was opened and a woman came out on the porch and called to him.

"Pen!"

"Yes, Aunt Millicent." He turned to listen to her.

"Pen, don't forget that your grandfather's going to New York on the
five-ten train, and that you are to be at the station to see him off."

"I won't forget, auntie."

"And then come straight home."

"Straight as a string, Aunt Milly."

"All right! Good-by!"

"Good-by!"

He passed through the gate, and down the street toward the center of
the village. It was the noon recess and he was on his way back to
school where he must report at one-fifteen sharp. He had an abundance
of time, however, and he stopped in front of the post-office to talk
with another boy about the coasting on Drake's Hill. It was while he
was standing there that some one called to him from the street. Seated
in an old-fashioned cutter drawn by an old gray horse were an old man
and a young woman. The woman's face flushed and brightened, and her
eyes shone with gladness, as Pen leaped from the sidewalk and ran
toward her.

"Why, mother!" he cried. "I didn't expect to see you. Are you in for a
sleigh-ride?"

She bent over and kissed him and patted his cheek before she replied,

"Yes, dearie. Grandpa had to come to town; and it's so beautiful after
the snow that I begged to come along."

Then the old man, round-faced and rosy, with a fringe of gray whiskers
under his chin, and a green and red comforter about his neck, reached
out a mittened hand and shook hands with Pen.

"Couldn't keep her to hum," he said, "when she seen me hitchin' up old
Charlie."

He laughed good-naturedly and tucked the buffalo-robe in under him.

"How's grandma?" asked Pen.

"Jest about as usual," was the reply. "When you comin' out to see us?"

"I don't know. Maybe a week from Saturday. I'll see."

Then Pen's mother spoke again.

"You were going to school, weren't you? We won't keep you. Give my
love to Aunt Millicent; and come soon to see us."

She kissed him again; the old man clicked to his horse, and succeeded,
after some effort, in starting him, and Pen returned to the sidewalk
and resumed his journey toward school.

It was noticeable that no one had spoken of Colonel Butler, the
grandfather with whom Pen lived at Bannerhall on the main street of
Chestnut Hill. There was a reason for that. Colonel Butler was Pen's
paternal grandfather; and Colonel Butler's son had married contrary to
his father's wish. When, a few years later, the son died, leaving a
widow and an only child, Penfield, the colonel had so far relented as
to offer a home to his grandson, and to provide an annuity for the
widow. She declined the annuity for herself, but accepted the offer of
a home for her son. She knew that it would be a home where, in charge
of his aunt Millicent, her boy would receive every advantage of care,
education and culture. So she kissed him good-by and left him there,
and she herself, ill, penniless and wretched, went back to live with
her father on the little farm at Cobb's Corners, five miles away. But
all that was ten years before, and Pen was now fourteen. That he had
been well cared for was manifest in his clothing, his countenance,
his bearing and his whole demeanor as he hurried along the partly
swept pavement toward his destination.

A few blocks farther on he overtook a school-fellow, and, as they
walked together, they discussed the war.

For war had been declared. It had not only been declared, it was in
actual progress.

Equipped and generalled, stubborn and aggressive, the opposing forces
had faced each other for weeks. Yet it had not been a sanguinary
conflict. Aside from a few bruised shins and torn coats and missing
caps, there had been no casualties worth mentioning. It was not a
country-wide war. It was, indeed, a war of which no history save this
veracious chronicle, gives any record.

The contending armies were composed of boys. And the boys were
residents, respectively, of the Hill and the Valley; two villages,
united under the original name of Chestnut Hill, and so closely joined
together that it would have been impossible for a stranger to tell
where one ended and the other began. The Hill, back on the plateau,
had the advantage of age and the prestige that wealth gives. The
Valley, established down on the river bank when the railroad was built
through, had the benefit of youth and the virtue of aggressiveness.
Yet they were mutually interdependent. One could not have prospered
without the aid of the other. When the new graded-school building was
erected, it was located on the brow of the hill in order to
accommodate pupils from both villages. From that time the boys who
lived on the hill were called Hilltops, and those who lived in the
valley were called Riverbeds. Just when the trouble began, or what was
the specific cause of it, no one seemed exactly to know. Like Topsy,
it simply grew. With the first snow of the winter came the first
physical clash between the opposing forces of Hilltops and Riverbeds.
It was a mild enough encounter, but it served to whet the appetites of
the young combatants for more serious warfare. Miss Grey, the
principal of the school, was troubled and apprehensive. She had
encouraged a friendly rivalry between the two sets of boys in matters
of intellectual achievement, but she greatly deprecated such a state
of hostility as would give rise to harsh feelings or physical
violence. She knew that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to
coerce them into peace and harmony, so she set about to contrive some
method by which the mutual interest of the boys could be aroused and
blended toward the accomplishment of a common object.

The procuring of an American flag for the use of the school had long
been talked of, and it occurred to her now that if she could stimulate
a friendly rivalry among her pupils, in an effort to obtain funds for
the purchase of a flag, it might divert their minds from thoughts of
hostility to each other, into channels where a laudable competition
would be provocative of harmony. So she decided, after consultation
with the two grade teachers, to prepare two subscription blanks, each
with its proper heading, and place them respectively in the hands of
Penfield Butler captain of the Hilltops, and Alexander Sands commander
of the Riverbeds. The other pupils would be instructed to fall in
behind these leaders and see which party could obtain, not necessarily
the most money, but the largest number of subscriptions. She felt
that interest in the flag would be aroused by the numbers contributing
rather than by the amount contributed. It was during the session of
the school that afternoon that she made the announcement of her plan,
and delivered the subscription papers to the two captains. She aroused
much enthusiasm by the little speech she made, dwelling on the beauty
and symbolism of the flag, and the patriotic impulse that would be
aroused and strengthened by having it always in sight.

No one questioned the fact that Pen Butler was the leader of the
Hilltops, nor did any one question the similar fact that Aleck Sands
was the leader of the Riverbeds. There had never been any election or
appointment, to be sure, but, by common consent and natural selection,
these two had been chosen in the beginning as commanders of the
separate hosts.

When, therefore, the subscription blanks were put into the hands of
these boys as leaders, every one felt that nothing would be left
undone by either to win fame and honor for his party in the matter of
the flag.

So, when the afternoon session of school closed, every one had
forgotten, for the time being at least, the old rivalry, and was ready
to enlist heartily in the new one.

There was fine coasting that day on Drake's Hill. The surface of the
road-bed, hard and smooth, had been worn through in patches, but the
snow-fall of the night before had so dressed it over as to make it
quite perfect for this exhilarating winter sport.

As he left the school-house Pen looked at his watch, a gift from his
grandfather Butler on his last birthday, and found that he would have
more than half an hour in which to enjoy himself at coasting before it
would be necessary to start for the railroad station to see Colonel
Butler off on the train. So, with his companions, he went to Drake's
Hill. It was fine sport indeed. The bobs had never before descended so
swiftly nor covered so long a stretch beyond the incline. But, no
matter how fascinating the sport, Pen kept his engagement in mind and
intended to leave the hill in plenty of time to meet it. There were
especial reasons this day why he should do so. In the first place
Colonel Butler would be away from home for nearly a week, and it had
always been Pen's custom to see his grandfather off on a journey, even
though he were to be gone but a day. And in the next place he wanted
to be sure to get Colonel Butler's name at the head of his flag
subscription list. This would doubtless be the most important
contribution to be made to the fund.

At half-past four he decided to take one more ride and then start for
the station. But on that ride an accident occurred. The bobs on which
the boys were seated collapsed midway of the descent, and threw the
coasters into a heap in the ditch. None of them was seriously hurt,
though the loose stones among which they were thrown were not
sufficiently cushioned by the snow to prevent some bruises, and
abrasions of the skin. Of course there was much confusion and
excitement. There was scrambling, and rubbing of hurt places, and an
immediate investigation into the cause of the wreck. In the midst of
it all Pen forgot about his engagement. When the matter did recur to
his mind he glanced at his watch and found that it lacked but twelve
minutes of train time. It would be only by hard sprinting and rare
good luck that he would be able to reach the station in time to see
his grandfather off. Without a word of explanation to his fellows he
started away on a keen run. They looked after him in open-mouthed
wonder. They could not conceive what had happened to him. One boy
suggested that he had been frightened out of his senses by the shock
of the accident; and another that he had struck his head against a
rock and had gone temporarily insane, and that he ought to be followed
to see that he did no harm to himself. But no one offered to go on
such a mission, and, after watching the runner out of sight, they
turned their attention again to the wrecked bobs.

Aleck Sands went straight from school to his home in the valley. There
were afternoon chores to be done, and he was anxious to finish them as
soon as possible in order that he might start out with his
subscription paper.

He did not hope to equal Pen in the amount of contributions, for he
had no wealthy grandfather on whom to depend, but he did intend to
excel him in the number of subscribers. And it was desirable that he
should be early in the field.

It was almost dusk when he started from home to go to the grist-mill
of which his father was the proprietor. He wanted to get his father's
signature first, both as a matter of policy and as a matter of filial
courtesy.

As he approached the railroad station, which it was necessary for him
to pass on his way to the mill, he saw Colonel Butler pacing up and
down the platform which faced the town, and, at every turn, looking
anxiously up the street.

It was evident that the colonel was waiting for the train, and it was
just as evident that he was expecting some one, probably Pen, to come
to the station to see him off. And Pen was nowhere in sight.

A brilliant and daring thought entered Aleck's mind. While,
ordinarily, he was neither brilliant nor daring, yet he was
intelligent, quick and resourceful. He was always ready to meet an
emergency. The idea that had taken such sudden possession of him was
nothing more nor less than an impulse to solicit Colonel Butler for a
subscription to the flag fund and thus forestall Pen. And why not? He
knew of nothing to prevent. Pen had no exclusive right to
subscriptions from the Hill, any more than he, Aleck, had to
subscriptions from the Valley. And if he could be first to obtain a
contribution from Colonel Butler, the most important citizen of
Chestnut Hill, if not of the whole county, what plaudits would he not
receive from his comrades of the Riverbeds?

Having made up his mind he was not slow to act. He was already within
fifty feet of the platform on which the gray-mustached and stern-faced
veteran of the civil war was impatiently marching up and down. An
empty sleeve was pinned to the breast of the old soldier's coat; but
he stood erect, and his steps were measured with soldierly precision.
He had stopped for a moment to look, with keener scrutiny, up the
street which led to the station. Aleck stepped up on the platform and
approached him.

"Good evening, Colonel Butler!" he said.

The man turned and faced him.

"Good evening, sir!" he replied. "You have somewhat the advantage of
me, sir."

"My name is Aleck Sands," explained the boy. "My father has the
grist-mill here. Miss Grey, she is our teacher at the graded school,
and she gave me a paper--"

Colonel Butler interrupted him.

"A pupil at the graded school are you, sir? Do you chance to know a
lad there by the name of Penfield Butler; and if you know him can you
give me any information concerning his whereabouts this evening?"

"Yes, sir. I know him. After school he started for Drake's Hill with
some other Hill boys to go a coasting."

"Ah! Pleasure before duty. He was to have met me here prior to the
leaving of the train. I have little patience, sir, with boys who
neglect engagements to promote their own pleasures."

He had such an air of severity as he said it, that Aleck was not sure
whether, after all, he would dare to reapproach him on the subject of
the subscription. But he plucked up courage and started in anew.

"Our teacher, Miss Grey, gave me this paper to get subscriptions on
for the new flag. I'd be awful glad if you'd give something toward
it."

"What's that?" asked the man as he took the paper from Aleck's hand.
"A flag for the school? And has the school no flag?"

"No, sir; not any."

"The directors have been derelict in their duty, sir. They should have
provided a flag on the erection of the building. No public school
should be without an American flag. Let me see."

He unhooked his eye-glasses from the breast of his waistcoat and put
them on, shook out the paper dexterously with his one hand, and began
to read it aloud.

    "We, the undersigned, hereby agree to pay the sums set opposite
    our respective names, for the purpose of purchasing an American
    flag for the Chestnut Hill public school. All subscriptions to be
    payable to a collector hereafter to be appointed."

Colonel Butler removed his glasses from his nose and stood for a
moment in contemplation.

"I approve of the project," he said at last. "Our youth should be made
familiar with the sight of the flag. They should be taught to
reverence it. They should learn of the gallant deeds of those who have
fought for it through many great wars. I shall be glad to affix my
name, sir, to the document, and to make a modest contribution. How
large a fund is it proposed to raise?"

Aleck stammered a little as he replied. He had not expected so ready a
compliance with his request. And it was beginning to dawn on him that
it might be good policy, as well as a matter of common fairness, to
tell the colonel frankly that Pen also had been authorized to solicit
subscriptions. There might indeed be such a thing as revoking a
subscription made under a misleading representation, or a suppression
of facts. And if that should happen--

"Why," said Aleck, "why--Miss Grey said she thought we ought to get
twenty-five dollars. We've got to get a pole too, you know."

"Certainly you must have a staff, and a good one. Twenty-five dollars
is not enough money, young man. You should have forty dollars at
least. Fifty would be better. I'll give half of that amount myself.
There should be no skimping, no false economy, in a matter of such
prime importance. I shall see Miss Grey about it personally when I
return from New York. Kindly accompany me to the station-agent's
office where I can procure pen and ink."

Aleck knew that the revelation could be no longer delayed.

"But," he stammered, "but, Colonel Butler, you know Pen's got one
too."

The colonel turned back again.

"Got what?" he asked.

"Why, one of these, now, subscription papers."

"Has he?"

"Yes, sir."

Colonel Butler stood for a moment, apparently in deep thought. Then he
looked out again from under his bushy eye-brows, searchingly, up the
street. He took his watch from his pocket and glanced at it. After
that he spoke.

"Under normal conditions, sir, my grandson would have preference in a
matter of this kind, and I am obliged to you for unselfishly making
the suggestion. But, as he has failed to perform a certain duty toward
me, I shall consider myself relieved, for the time being, of my duty
of preference toward him. Kindly accompany me to the station-master's
office."

With Aleck in his wake he strode down the platform and across the
waiting-room, among the people who had gathered to wait for or depart
by the train, and spoke to the ticket-agent at the window.

"Will you kindly permit me, sir, to use your table and pen and ink to
sign a document of some importance?"

"Certainly!"

The man at the window opened the door of the agent's room and bade the
colonel and Aleck to enter. He pushed a chair up to the table and
placed ink and pens within reach.

"Help yourself, Colonel Butler," he said. "We're glad to accommodate
you."

But the colonel had barely seated himself before a new thought
entered his mind. He pondered for a moment, and then swung around in
the swivel-chair and faced the boy who stood waiting, cap in hand.

"Young man," he said, "it just occurs to me that I can serve your
school as well, and please myself better, by making a donation of the
flag instead of subscribing to the fund. Does the idea meet with your
approval?"

The proposition came so unexpectedly, and the question so suddenly,
that Aleck hardly knew how to respond.

"Why, yes, sir," he said hesitatingly, "I suppose so. You mean you'll
give us the flag?"

"Yes; I'll give you the flag. I am about starting for New York. I will
purchase one while there. And in the spring I will provide a proper
staff for it, in order that it may be flung to the breeze."

By this time Aleck comprehended the colonel's plan.

"Why," he exclaimed enthusiastically, "that'll be great! May I tell
Miss Grey?"

"You may be the sole bearer of my written offer to your respected
teacher."

He swung around to the table and picked up a pen.

"Your teacher's given name is--?" he inquired.

"Why," stammered Aleck, "it's--it's--why, her name's Miss Helen Grey."

The colonel began to write rapidly on the blank page of the
subscription paper.

    "_To Miss Helen Grey;_
      "_Principal of the Public School_
        "_Chestnut Hill._

    "My Dear Madam:

    "I am informed by one of your pupils, Master--"

He stopped long enough to ask the boy for his full name, and then
continued to write--

    "Alexander McMurtrie Sands, that it is your patriotic purpose to
    procure an American flag for use in your school. With this purpose
    I am in hearty accord. It will therefore give me great pleasure,
    my dear madam, to procure for you at once, at my sole expense, and
    present to your school, an appropriate banner, to be followed in
    due season by a fitting staff. I trust that my purpose and desire
    may commend themselves to you. I wish also that your pupil, the
    aforesaid Master Sands, shall have full credit for having so
    successfully called this matter to my attention; and to that end I
    make him sole bearer of this communication.

      "I remain, my dear madam,
        "Your obedient servant,
          "Richard Butler."

    January 12th.


Colonel Butler read the letter over slowly aloud, folded the
subscription paper on which it had been written, and handed it to
Aleck.

"There, young man," he said, "are your credentials, and my offer."

The shrieking whistle had already announced the approach of the train,
and the easy puffing of the locomotive indicated that it was now
standing at the station. The colonel rose from his chair and started
across the room, followed by Aleck.

"You're very kind to do that," said the boy. And he added: "Have you a
grip that I can carry to the train for you?"

"No, thank you! A certain act--rash perhaps, but justifiable,--in the
civil war, cost me an arm. Since then, when traveling, I have found it
convenient to check my baggage."

He pushed his way through the crowd on the platform, still followed by
Aleck, and mounted the rear steps of the last coach on the train. The
engine bell was ringing. The conductor cried, "All aboard!" and
signalled to the engineer, and the train moved slowly out.

On the rear platform, scanning the crowd at the station, stood Colonel
Butler, tall, soldierly, impressive. He saw Aleck and waved his hand
to him. And at that moment, capless, breathless, hopeless, around the
corner of the station into sight, dashed Pen Butler.




CHAPTER II


Pen was not only exhausted by his race, he was disappointed and
distressed as well.

Whether or not his grandfather had seen him as the train moved out he
did not know. He simply knew that for him not to have been there on
time was little less than tragical. He dropped down limply on a
convenient trunk to regain his breath.

After a minute he was aware that some one was standing near by,
looking at him. He glanced up and saw that it was Aleck Sands. He was
nettled. He knew of no reason why Aleck should stand there staring at
him.

"Well," he asked impatiently, "is there anything about me that's
particularly astonishing?"

"Not particularly," replied Aleck. "You seem to be winded, that's
all."

"You'd be winded too, if you'd run all the way from Drake's Hill."

"Too bad you missed your grandfather. He was looking for you."

"How do you know?"

"He told me so. He wanted to know if I'd seen you."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him you'd gone to Drake's Hill, coasting."

Pen rose slowly to his feet. What right, he asked himself, had this
fellow to be telling tales about him? What right had he to be talking
to Colonel Butler, anyway? However, he did not choose to lower his
dignity further by inquiry. He turned as if to leave the station. But
Aleck, who had been turning the matter over carefully in his mind, had
decided that Pen ought to know about the proposed gift of the flag. He
ought not to be permitted, unwittingly, to go on securing
subscriptions to a fund which, by reason of Colonel Butler's proposed
gift, had been made unnecessary. That would be cruel and humiliating.
So, as Pen turned away, he said to him:

"I've put in some work for the flag this afternoon."

"I s'pose so," responded Pen. "But it does not follow that by getting
the first start you'll come out best in the end."

"Maybe not; but I'd like to show you what I've done."

He took the subscription paper from his pocket and began to unfold it.

"Oh," replied Pen, "I don't care what you've done. It's none of my
business. You get your subscriptions and I'll get mine."

Aleck looked for a moment steadily at his opponent. Then he folded up
his paper and put it back into his pocket.

"All right!" he said. "Only don't forget that I offered to show it to
you to-day."

But Pen was both resentful and scornful. He did not propose to treat
his rival's offer seriously, nor to give him the satisfaction of
looking at his paper.

"You can't bluff me that way," he said. "And besides, I'm not
interested in what you're doing."

And he walked around the corner of the station platform and out into
the street.

When Aleck Sands tramped up the hill to school on the following
morning it was with no great sense of jubilation over his success. He
had an uneasy feeling that he had not done exactly the fair thing in
soliciting a subscription from Pen Butler's grandfather. It was, in a
way, trenching on Pen's preserves. But he justified himself on the
ground that he had a perfect right to get his contributions where he
chose. His agency had been conditioned by no territorial limits. And
if, by his diligence, he had outwitted Pen, surely he had nothing to
regret. So far as his failure to disclose to his rival the fact of
Colonel Butler's gift was concerned, that, he felt, was Pen's own
fault. If, by his offensive conduct, the other boy had deprived
himself of his means of knowledge, and had humiliated himself and made
himself ridiculous by procuring unnecessary subscriptions, certainly
he, Aleck, was not to blame. Under any circumstances, now that he had
gone so far in the matter, he would not yield an inch nor make a
single concession. On that course he was fully determined.

On the walk, as he approached the school-house door, Pen was standing,
with a group of Hill boys. They were discussing the accident that had
occurred on Drake's Hill the day before. They paid little attention to
Aleck as he passed by them, but, just as he was mounting the steps,
Pen called out to him.

"Oh, Aleck! You wanted to show me your subscription paper last night.
I'll look at it now, and you look at mine, and we'll leave it to the
fellows here who's got the most names and the most money promised. And
I haven't got my grandfather on it yet, either."

Aleck turned and faced him. "Remember what you said to me last night?"
he asked. "Well, I'll say the same thing to you this morning. I'm not
interested in your paper. It's none of my business. You get your
subscriptions and I'll get mine."

And he mounted the steps and entered the school-room.

Miss Grey was already at her desk, and he went straight to her.

"I've brought back my subscription blank, Miss Grey," he said, and he
handed the paper to her.

She looked up in surprise.

"You haven't completed your canvass, have you?" she asked.

"No. If you'll read the paper you'll see it wasn't necessary."

She unfolded the paper and read the letter written on it. Her face
flushed; but whether with astonishment or anxiety it would have been
difficult to say.

"Did Colonel Butler know," she inquired, "when he wrote this, that Pen
also had a subscription paper?"

"Yes. I met him at the station last night, when he was starting for
New York, and I told him all about it."

"Was Pen there?"

"No; he didn't get there till after the train started."

"Does he know about this letter?"

"Not from me. I offered to show it to him but he wouldn't look at it."

"Aleck, there's something strange about this. I don't quite understand
it. Is Pen outside?"

"Yes; he was when I came."

"Call him in, please; and return with him."

Aleck went to the door, his resolution to stand by his conduct growing
stronger every minute. He called to Pen.

"Miss Grey wants to see you," he said.

"What for?" inquired Pen.

"She'll tell you when you come in."

Both boys returned to the teacher.

"Pen," she inquired, "have you obtained any subscriptions to your
paper for the flag fund?"

"Yes, Miss Grey," he replied. "I think I've done pretty well
considering my grandfather's not home."

He handed his paper to her with a show of pardonable pride; but she
merely glanced at the long list of names.

"Did you know," she asked, "that Colonel Butler has decided to give
the flag to the school?"

Pen opened his eyes in astonishment.

"No," he said. "Has he?"

"Read this letter, please."

She handed the colonel's letter to him and he began to read it. His
face grew red and his eyes snapped. He had been outwitted. He knew in
a moment when, where and how it had been done. He handed the paper
back to Miss Grey.

"All right!" he said. "But I think it was a mean, underhanded,
contemptible trick."

Then Aleck, slow to wrath, woke up.

"There was nothing mean nor underhanded about it," he retorted. "I had
a perfect right to ask Colonel Butler for a subscription. And if he
chose to give the whole flag, that was his lookout. And," turning to
Pen, "if you'd been half way decent last night, you'd have known all
about this thing then, and maybe saved yourself some trouble."

Before Pen could flash back a reply, Miss Grey intervened.

"That will do, boys. I'm not sure who is in the wrong here, if any one
is. I propose to find out about that, later. It's an unfortunate
situation; but, in justice to Colonel Butler, we must accept it." She
handed Pen's paper back to him, and added: "I think you had better
take this back to your subscribers, and ask them to cancel their
subscriptions. I will consult with my associates at noon, and we will
decide upon our future course. In the meantime I charge you both,
strictly, to say nothing about this matter until after I have made my
announcement at the afternoon session. You may take your seats."

The school bell had already ceased ringing, and the pupils had filed
in and had taken their proper places. So Aleck and Pen went down the
aisle, the one with stubborn resolution marking his countenance, the
other with keen resentment flashing from his eyes.

And poor Miss Grey, mild and peace-loving, but now troubled and
despondent, who had thought to restore harmony among her pupils,
foresaw, instead, only a continued and more bitter rivalry.

Notwithstanding her admonition, rumors of serious trouble between
Aleck and Pen filtered through the school-room during the morning
session, and were openly discussed at the noon recess. But both boys
kept silent.

It was not until the day's work had been finally disposed of, and the
closing hour had almost arrived, that Miss Grey made her announcement.

With all the composure at her command she called the attention of the
school to the plan for a flag fund.

"Our end has been accomplished," she added, "much more quickly and
successfully than we had dared to hope, as you will see by this letter
which I shall read to you."

When she had finished reading the letter there was a burst of
applause. The school had not discovered the currents under the
surface.

She continued:

"This, of course, will do away with the necessity of obtaining
subscriptions. Honors appear to be nearly even. A prominent citizen of
Chestnut Hill has given us the flag--" (Loud applause from the
Hilltops;) "and a pupil from Chestnut Valley has the distinction of
having procured the gift." (Cheers for Aleck Sands from the
Riverbeds.) "Now let rivalry cease, and let us unite in a fitting
acceptance of the gift. I have consulted with my associates, and we
have appointed a committee to wait upon Colonel Butler and to
cooperate with him in fixing a day for the presentation of the flag to
the school. We will make a half-holiday for the occasion, and will
prepare an order of exercises. We assume that Colonel Butler will make
a speech of presentation, and we have selected Penfield Butler as the
most appropriate person to respond on behalf of the school. Penfield
will prepare himself accordingly."

By making this appointment Miss Grey had hoped to pour oil upon the
troubled waters, and to bring about at least a semblance of harmony
among the warring elements. But, as the event proved, she had counted
without her host. For she had no sooner finished her address than Pen
was on his feet. His face was pale and there was a strange look in his
eyes, but he did not appear to be unduly excited.

"May I speak, Miss Grey?" he asked.

"Certainly," she replied.

"Then I want to say that I'm very much obliged to you for appointing
me, but I decline the appointment. I'm glad the school's going to have
a flag, and I'm glad my grandfather's going to give it; and I thank
you, Miss Grey, for trying to please me; but I don't propose to be
made the tail of Aleck Sands' kite. If he thinks it's an honor to get
the flag the way he got it, let him have the honor of accepting it."

Pen sat down. There was no applause. Even his own followers were too
greatly amazed for the moment to applaud him. And, before they got
their wits together, Miss Grey had again taken the reins in hand.

"I am sure we all regret," she said, "that Penfield does not see fit
to accept this appointment, and we should regret still more the
attitude of mind that leads him to decline it. However, in accordance
with his suggestion, I will name Alexander Sands as the person who
will make the response to Colonel Butler's presentation speech. That
is all to-day. When school is dismissed you will not loiter about the
school grounds, but go immediately to your homes."

It was a wise precaution on Miss Grey's part to direct her pupils to
go at once to their homes. There is no telling what disorder might
have taken place had they been permitted to remain. The group of
Hilltops that surrounded Pen as he marched up the street and explained
the situation to them, was loud in its condemnation of the meanness
and trickery of Aleck Sands; and the party of Riverbeds that walked
down with Aleck was jubilant over the clever way in which he had
outwitted his opponent, and had, by obtaining honor for himself,
conferred honor also upon them.

Colonel Butler returned, in due season, from New York.

Pen met him at the station on his arrival. There was no delay on this
occasion. Indeed, the boy had paced up and down the platform for at
least fifteen minutes before the train drew in. During the ride up to
Bannerhall, behind the splendid team of blacks with their jingling
bells, nothing was said about the gift of the flag. It was not until
dinner had been served and partly eaten that the subject was
mentioned, and the colonel himself was the first one to mention it.

"By the way, Penfield," he said, "I have ordered, and I expect to
receive in a few days, an American flag which I shall present to your
public school. I presume you have heard something concerning it?"

"Yes, grandfather. Your letter was read to the school by Miss Grey the
day after you went to New York."

"Did she seem pleased over the gift?"

"Yes, very much so, I think. It was awfully nice of you to give it."

"A--was any arrangement made about receiving it?"

"Yes, Miss Grey appointed a committee to see you. There's to be a
half-holiday, and exercises."

"I presume--a--Penfield, that I will be expected to make a brief
address?"

"Of course. Miss Grey's counting on it."

"Now, father," interrupted Aunt Millicent, "I do hope it will be a
really brief address. You're so long-winded. That speech you made when
the school-house was dedicated was twice too long. Everybody got
tired."

His daughter Millicent was the only person on earth from whom Colonel
Butler would accept criticism or reproof. And from her he not only
accepted it, but not infrequently acted upon it in accordance with her
wish. He had always humored her, because she had always lived with
him, except during the time she was away at boarding school; and since
the death of his wife, a dozen years before, she had devoted herself
to his comfort. But he was fond, nevertheless, of getting into a mild
argument with her, and being vanquished, as he expected to be now.

"My dear daughter," he said, "I invariably gauge the length of my
speech by the importance of the occasion. The occasion to which you
refer was an important one, as will be the occasion of the
presentation of this flag. It will be necessary for me, therefore, to
address the pupils and the assembled guests at sufficient length to
impress upon them the desirability, you may say the necessity, of
having a patriotic emblem, such as is the American flag, constantly
before the eyes of our youth."

His daughter laughed a little. She was never awed by his stately
manner of speech.

"All the same," she replied; "I shall get a seat in the front row, and
if you exceed fifteen minutes--fifteen minutes to a minute, mind
you--I shall hold up a warning finger; and if you still trespass, I
shall go up and drag you off the platform by your coat tails; and then
you'd look pretty, wouldn't you?"

Apparently he did not find it profitable to prolong the argument with
her on this occasion, for he laughed and turned again to Pen.

"By the way, Penfield," he said, "I missed you at the train the day I
left home. I suppose something of major importance detained you?"

Pen blushed a little, but he replied frankly:

"I was awfully sorry, grandfather; I meant to have written you about
it. I didn't exactly forget; but I was coasting on Drake's Hill, and
there was an accident, and I was very much excited, and it got
train-time before I knew it. Then I ran as fast as I could, but it
wasn't any use."

"I see. I trust that no one was seriously injured?"

"No, sir. I bruised my shin a little, and Elmer scraped his knee, and
the bobs were wrecked; that's about all."

Colonel Butler adjusted his glasses and leaned back in his chair; a
habit he had when about to deliver himself of an opinion which he
deemed important.

"Penfield," he said, "a gentleman should never permit anything to
interfere with the keeping of his engagements. If the matter in hand
is of sufficient importance to call for an engagement, it is of
sufficient importance to keep the engagement so made. It is an
elementary principle of good conduct that a gentleman should always
keep his word. Otherwise the relations of men with each other would
become chaotic."

"Yes, sir," replied Pen.

Colonel Butler removed his glasses and again applied himself to the
disposal of his food which had been cut into convenient portions by
his devoted daughter.

But his mind soon recurred to the subject of the flag.

"A--Penfield," he inquired, "do you chance to know whether any person
has been chosen to make a formal response to my speech of
presentation?"

Pen felt that the conversation was approaching an embarrassing stage,
but there was no hesitancy in his manner as he replied:

"Yes, sir. The boy that got your offer, Aleck Sands, will make the
response."

"H'm! I was hoping, expecting in fact, that you, yourself, would be
chosen to perform that pleasing duty. Had you been, we could have
prepared our several speeches with a view to their proper relation to
each other. It occurred to me that your teacher, Miss Grey, would have
this fact in mind. Do you happen to know of any reason why she should
not have appointed you?"

For the first time in the course of the conversation Pen hesitated and
stammered.

"Why, I--she--she did appoint me."

"Haven't you just told me, sir, that--"

"But, grandfather, I declined."

Aunt Millicent dropped her hands into her lap in astonishment.

"Pen Butler!" she exclaimed, "why haven't you told me a word of this
before?"

"Because, Aunt Milly, it wasn't a very agreeable incident, and I
didn't want to bother you telling about it."

Colonel Butler had, in the meantime, again put on his glasses in order
that he might look more searchingly at his grandson.

"Permit me to inquire," he asked, "why you should have declined so
distinct an honor?"

Then Pen blurted out his whole grievance.

"Because Aleck Sands didn't do the fair thing. He got you to give the
flag through him instead of through me, by a mean trick. He gets the
credit of getting the flag; now let him have the honor of accepting
it. I won't play second fiddle to such a fellow as he is, and that's
all there is to it."

He pushed his chair back from the table and sat, with flaming cheeks
and defiant eyes, as if ready to meet all comers.

Aunt Millicent, more astonished than ever, exclaimed:

"Why, Pen Butler, I'm shocked!"

But the colonel did not seem to be shocked. Back of his glasses there
was a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes which Pen could not see. Here
was the old Butler pride and independence manifesting itself; the
spirit which had made the family prosperous and prominent. He was not
ill-pleased. Nevertheless he leaned back in his chair and spoke
impressively:

"Now let us consider the situation. You received from your teacher a
copy of the same subscription blank which was handed to your
fellow-pupil. Had you met your engagement at the station, and called
the matter to my attention, you would doubtless have received my
subscription, or been the bearer of my offer, in preference to any one
else. In your absence your school-fellow seized a legitimate
opportunity to present his case. My regret at your failure to appear,
and my appreciation of his alertness, led me to favor him. I am unable
to see why, under these circumstances, he should be charged with
improper conduct."

"Well," responded Pen, hotly, "he might at least have told you that I
had a subscription blank too."

"He did so inform me. And his fairness and frankness in doing so was
an inducing cause of my favorable consideration of his request."

Pen felt that the ground was being cut away from under his feet, but
he still had one grievance left.

"Anyway," he exclaimed, "he might have told me about your giving the
whole flag, instead of letting me go around like a monkey, collecting
pennies for nothing."

"Very true, Penfield, he should have told you. Didn't he intimate to
you in any way what I had done? Didn't he offer to show you his
subscription blank containing my letter?"

"Why--why, yes, I believe he did."

"And you declined to look at it?"

"Yes, I declined to look at it. I considered it none of my business.
But he might have told me what was on it."

"My dear grandson; this is a case in which the alertness of your
school-fellow, added to your failure to keep an engagement and to
grasp a situation, has led to your discomfiture. Let this be a lesson
to you to be diligent, vigilant and forearmed. Only thus are great
battles won."

Again the colonel placed his glasses on the hook on the breast of his
waistcoat, and resumed his activity in connection with his evening
meal. It was plain that he considered the discussion at an end.




CHAPTER III


It was on an afternoon late in January that the flag was finally
presented to the school. It was a day marked with fierce winds and
flurries of snow, like a day in March.

But the inclement weather did not prevent people from coming to the
presentation exercises. The school room was full; even the aisles were
filled, and more than one late-comer was turned away because there was
no more room.

Notwithstanding the fact that the Riverbeds were to have the lion's
share of the honors of the occasion, and the further fact that
resentment in the ranks of the Hilltops ran strong and deep, and
doubly so since the outwitting of their leader, no attempt was made to
block the program, or to interfere, in any way, with the success of
the occasion.

There were, indeed, some secret whisperings in a little group of which
Elmer Cuddeback was the center; but, if any mischief was brewing, Pen
did not know of it.

Moreover, was it not Pen's grandfather who had given the flag, and who
was to be the chief guest of the school, and was it not up to the
Hilltops to see that he was treated with becoming courtesy? At any
rate that was the "consensus of opinion" among them. Colonel Butler
had prepared his presentation speech with great care. Twice he had
read it aloud in his library to his grandson and to his daughter
Millicent.

His grandson had only favorable comment to make, but his daughter
Millicent criticised it sharply. She said that it was twice too long,
that it had too much "spread eagle" in it, and that it would be away
over the heads of his audience anyway. So the colonel modified it
somewhat; but, unfortunately, he neither made it simpler nor
appreciably shorter.

Aleck, too, under the supervision of his teacher, had prepared a
fitting and patriotic response which he had committed to memory and
had rehearsed many times. Pupils taking part in the rest of the
program had been carefully and patiently drilled, and every one
looked forward to an occasion which would be marked as a red-letter
day in the history of the Chestnut Hill school.

The exercises opened with the singing of "The Star Spangled Banner,"
by the school. There was a brief prayer by the pastor of one of the
village churches. Next came a recitation, "Barbara Frietchie," by a
small girl. Then another girl read a brief history of the American
flag. She was followed by James Garfield Morrissey, the crack
elocutionist of the school, who recited, in fine form, a well-known
patriotic poem, written to commemorate the heroism of American sailors
who cheered the flag as they went down with the sinking flag-ship
_Trenton_ in a hurricane which swept the Samoan coast in 1889.

            THE BANNER OF THE SEA

    By wind and wave the sailor brave has fared
            To shores of every sea;
    But, never yet have seamen met or dared
            Grim death for victory,
      In braver mood than they who died
      On drifting decks in Apia's tide
      While cheering every sailor's pride,
              The Banner of the Free.

    Columbia's men were they who then went down,
            Not knights nor kings of old;
    But brighter far their laurels are than crown
            Or coronet of gold.
      Our sailor true, of any crew,
      Would give the last long breath he drew
      To cheer the old Red, White and Blue,
              The Banner of the Bold.

    With hearts of oak, through storm and smoke and flame,
            Columbia's seamen long
    Have bravely fought and nobly wrought that shame
            Might never dull their song.
      They sing the Country of the Free,
      The glory of the rolling sea,
      The starry flag of liberty,
              The Banner of the Strong.

    We ask but this, and not amiss the claim;
            A fleet to ride the wave,
    A navy great to crown the state with fame,
            Though foes or tempests rave.
      Then, as our fathers did of yore,
      We'll sail our ships to every shore,
      On every ocean wind will soar
              The Banner of the Brave.

    Oh! this we claim that never shame may ride
            On any wave with thee,
    Thou ship of state whose timbers great abide
            The home of liberty.
      For, so, our gallant Yankee tars,
      Of daring deeds and honored scars,
      Will make the Banner of the Stars
              The Banner of the Sea.

The school having been roused to a proper pitch of enthusiasm by the
reading of these verses, Colonel Butler rose in an atmosphere already
surcharged with patriotism to make his presentation speech. Hearty
applause greeted the colonel, for, notwithstanding his well-known
idiosyncrasies, he was extremely popular in Chestnut Hill. He had been
a brave soldier, an exemplary neighbor, a prominent and
public-spirited citizen. Why should he not receive a generous welcome?
He graciously bowed his acknowledgment, and when the hand-clapping
ceased he began:

"Honored teachers, diligent pupils, faithful directors, patriotic
citizens, and friends. This is a most momentous occasion. We are met
to-day to do honor to the flag of our country, a flag for which--and I
say it with pardonable pride--I, myself, have fought on many a bloody
and well-known field."

There was a round of applause.

The colonel's face flushed with pleasure, his voice rose and expanded,
and in many a well-rounded phrase and burst of eloquence he appealed
to the latent patriotism of his hearers.

At the end of fifteen minutes he glanced at his watch which was lying
on a table at his side, and then looked at his daughter Millicent who
was occupying a chair in the front row as she had said she would. She
frowned at him forbiddingly. But he was as yet scarcely half through
his speech. He picked up his manuscript from the table and glanced at
it, and then looked appealingly at her. She was obdurate. She held a
warning forefinger in the air.

"I am reminded," he said, "by one in the audience whose judgment I am
bound to respect, that the time allotted to me in this program has
nearly elapsed."

"Fully elapsed," whispered his daughter with pursed lips, in such
manner that, looking at her, he could not fail to catch the words.

"Therefore," continued the colonel, with a sigh, "I must hasten to my
conclusion. I wish to acknowledge my deep indebtedness to your
faithful teacher, Miss Grey, by reason of whose patriotic initiative
the opportunity was presented to me to make this gift. I wish also to
commend the vigilance and effort of the young gentleman who brought
the matter to my immediate and personal attention, and who, I am
informed, will fittingly and eloquently respond to this brief and
somewhat unsatisfactory address, Master Alexander Sands."

Back somewhere in the audience, at the sound of the name, there was an
audible sniff which was immediately drowned by loud hand-clapping on
the part of the Riverbeds. But Colonel Butler was not yet quite
through. Avoiding any ominous look which might have been aimed at him
by his daughter, he hurried on:

"And now, in conclusion, as I turn this flag over into your custody,
let me charge you to guard it with exceeding care. It should be
treated with reverence because it symbolizes our common country.
Whoever regards it with indifference has no patriotic blood in his
veins. Whoever lays wanton hands on it is a traitor to it. And whoever
insults or defames it in any way, deserves, and will receive, the open
scorn and lasting contempt of all his countrymen. Ladies and
gentlemen, I have done."

The colonel resumed his seat amid a roar of applause, and when it had
subsided Miss Grey arose to introduce the respondent.

"This beautiful flag," she said, "will now be accepted, on behalf of
the school, in an address by one of our pupils: Master Alexander
Sands."

Aleck arose and made his way to the platform. The Riverbeds applauded
him vigorously, and the guests mildly, as he went. He started out
bravely enough on his speech.

"Colonel Butler, teachers and guests: It gives me pleasure, on behalf
of the Chestnut Hill public school, to accept this beautiful flag--"

He made a sweeping gesture toward the right-hand corner of the
platform, as he had done at rehearsals, only to discover that the flag
had, at the last moment, been shifted to the left-hand corner, and he
had, perforce, to turn and repeat his gesture in that direction. There
was nothing particularly disconcerting about this, but it broke the
continuity of his effort, it interfered with his memory, he halted,
colored, and cudgeled his brains to find what came next. Back, in the
rear of the room, where the Hilltops were gathered, there was an
audible snicker; but Aleck was too busy to hear it, and Miss Grey,
prepared for just such an emergency as this, glanced at a manuscript
she had in her hand, and prompted him:

"So graciously given to us--"

Aleck caught the words and went on:

"--so graciously given to us by our honored townsman and patriotic
citizen, Colonel Richard Butler."

Another pause. Again Miss Grey came to the rescue.

"No words of mine--" she said.

"No words of mine," repeated Aleck.

"Sure, they're no words of yours," said some one in a stage-whisper,
far down in the audience.

Suspicion pointed to Elmer Cuddeback, but he stood there against the
wall, with such an innocent, sober look on his round face, that people
thought they must be mistaken. The words had not failed to reach to
the platform, however, and Miss Grey, more troubled than before, again
had recourse to her manuscript for the benefit of Aleck, who was
floundering more deeply than ever in the bogs of memory.

"--can properly express--"

"--can properly express--"

Another pause. Again the voice back by the wall:

"Express broke down; take local."

The situation was growing desperate. Miss Grey was almost at her wit's
end. Then a bright idea struck her. She thrust the manuscript into
Aleck's hand.

"Oh, Aleck," she exclaimed, "take it and read it!"

He grasped it like the proverbial drowning man, turned it upside down
and right side up, but failed to find the place where he had left off.

[Illustration: Aleck Turned it Upside Down and Rightside Up, But
Failed to Find the Place]

Again the insistent, high-pitched whisper from the rear, breaking
distinctly into the embarrassing silence:

"Can't read it, cause teacher wrote it."

This was the last straw. Slow to wrath as he always was, Aleck had
thus far kept his temper. But this charge filled him with sudden anger
and resentment. He turned his eyes, blazing with fury, toward the boy
by the rear wall, whom he knew was baiting him, and shouted:

"That's a lie, Elmer Cuddeback, and you know it!"

At once confusion reigned. People stood up and looked around to get a
possible glimpse of the object of Aleck's denunciation. Some one
cried: "Put him out!"

Two or three members of the Riverbeds started threateningly toward
Elmer, and his friends struggled to get closer to him. An excitable
woman in the audience screamed. Miss Grey was pounding vigorously with
her gavel, but to no effect. Then Colonel Butler himself took matters
in hand. He rose to his feet, stretched out his arm, and shouted:

"Order! Order! Resume your seats!"

People sat down again. The belligerent boys halted in their tracks.
Everyone felt that the colonel must be obeyed. He waited, in
commanding attitude, until order had been restored, then he continued:

"The young gentleman who undertook to respond to my address was
stricken with what is commonly known as stage-fright. That is no
discredit to him. It is a malady that attacked so great a man and so
brave a warrior as General Grant. I may add that I, myself, have
suffered from it on occasion. And now that order has been restored we
will proceed with the regular program, and Master Sands will finish
the delivery of his address."

He stepped back to give the respondent the floor; but Master Sands was
nowhere in sight. In the confusion he had disappeared. The colonel
looked around him expectantly for a moment, and then again advanced to
the front of the platform.

"In the absence of our young friend," he said, "whose address, I am
sure, would have been received with the approbation it deserves, I,
myself, will occupy a portion of the time thus made vacant, in still
further expounding to you--"

But at this moment, notwithstanding his effort to avoid it, he again
caught his daughter's warning look, and saw her forefinger held
threateningly in the air.

"I am reminded, however," he continued, "by one in the audience whose
judgment I am bound to respect, that it is not appropriate for me to
make both the speech of presentation and the address on behalf of the
recipient. I will, therefore, conclude by thanking you for your
attendance and your attention, and by again adjuring you to honor,
protect and preserve this beautiful emblem of our national liberties."

He had scarcely taken his seat amid the applause that his words always
evoked, before Miss Grey was on her feet announcing the closing number
of the program, the song "America," by the entire audience.

Whether it was due to the excitement of the occasion, or, as the
colonel afterward modestly suggested, to the spirit of patriotism
aroused by his remarks, it is a fact that no one present had ever
before heard the old song sung with more vim and feeling.

The audience was dismissed.

Colonel Butler's friends came forward to congratulate and thank him.
The Hilltops, chuckling gleefully, with Elmer Cuddeback in their
center, marched off up-town. The Riverbeds, downcast and revengeful,
made their way down the hill. But Aleck Sands was not with them. He
had already left the school-building and had gone home. He was angry
and bitterly resentful. He felt that he could have faced any one, at
any time, in open warfare, but to be humiliated and ridiculed in
public, that was more than even his phlegmatic nature could stand. He
could not forget it. He could not forgive those who had caused it.
Days, weeks, years were not sufficient to blot entirely from his heart
the feeling of revenge that entered it that winter afternoon.

It was late on the same day that Colonel Butler stood with his back to
the blazing wood-fire in the library, waiting for his supper to be
served, and looking out into the hall on the folds of the handsome,
silk, American flag draped against the wall. There had always been a
flag in the hall. Colonel Butler's father had placed one there when he
built the house and went to live in it. And when, later on, the
colonel fell heir to the property, and rebuilt and modernized the
home, he replaced the old flag of bunting with the present one of
silk. Indeed, it was on account of the place and prominence given to
the flag that the homestead had been known for many years as
Bannerhall.

Pen sat at the library table preparing his lessons for the following
day.

"Well, Penfield," said the colonel, "a--what did you think of my
speech to-day?"

"I thought it was great," replied Pen. "Pretty near as good as the one
you delivered last Memorial Day."

The colonel smiled with satisfaction. "Yes," he remarked, "I, myself,
thought it was pretty good; or would have been if your aunt Millicent
had permitted me to complete it. It was also unfortunate that your
young friend was not able fully to carry out his part of the program."

"You mean Aleck Sands?"

"I believe that is the young gentleman's name."

"He's not my friend, grandfather."

"Tut! Tut! You should not harbor resentment because of his having
outwitted you in the matter of procuring the flag. Especially in view
of his discomfiture of to-day."

"It wasn't my fault that he flunked."

"I am not charging you with that responsibility, sir. I am simply
appealing to your generosity. By the way, I understand--I have learned
this afternoon, that there exists what may be termed a feud between
the boys of Chestnut Hill and those of Chestnut Valley. Have I been
correctly informed?"

"Why, yes; I guess--I suppose you might call it that."

"And I have been informed also that you are the leader of what are
facetiously termed the 'Hilltops,' and that our young friend, Master
Sands, is the leader of what are termed, still more facetiously, the
'Riverbeds.' Is this true?"

Pen closed his book and hesitated. He felt that a reproof was coming,
to be followed, perhaps, by strict orders concerning his own
neutrality.

"Well," he stammered, "I--I guess that's about right. Anyway our
fellows sort o' depend on me to help 'em hold their own."

Pen was not looking at his grandfather. If he had been he would have
seen a twinkle of satisfaction in the old gentleman's eyes. It was
something for a veteran of the civil war to have a grandson who had
been chosen to the leadership of his fellows for the purpose of
engaging in juvenile hostilities. So there was no shadow of reproof in
the colonel's voice as he asked his next question.

"And what, may I inquire, is, or has been, the _casus belli_?"

"The what, sir?"

"The--a--cause or causes which have produced the present state of
hostility."

"Why, I don't know--nothing in particular, I guess--only they're all
the time doing mean things, and boasting they can lick us if we give
'em a chance; and I--I'm for giving 'em the chance."

Reproof or no reproof, he had spoken his mind. He had risen from his
chair, and stood before his grandfather with determination written in
every line of his flushed face. Colonel Butler looked at him and
chuckled.

"Very good!" he said. He chuckled again and repeated: "Very good!"

Pen stared at him in astonishment. He could not quite understand his
attitude.

"Now, Penfield," continued the old gentleman, "mind you, I do not
approve of petty jealousies and quarrelings, nor of causeless
assaults. But, when any person is assailed, it is his peculiar
privilege, sir, to hit back. And when he hits he should hit hard. He
should use both strategy and force. He should see to it, sir, that his
enemy is punished. Have your two hostile bodies yet met in open
conflict on the field?"

"Why," replied Pen, still amazed at the course things were taking,
"we've had one or two rather lively little scraps. But I suppose,
after what happened to-day, they'll want to fight. If they do want to,
we're ready for 'em."

The colonel had left his place in front of the fire, and was pacing up
and down the room.

"Very good!" he exclaimed, "very good! Men and nations should always
be prepared for conflict. To that end young men should learn the art
of fighting, so that when the call to arms comes, as I foresee that it
will come, the nation will be ready."

He stopped in his walk and faced his grandson.

"Not that I deprecate the arts of peace, Penfield. By no means! It is
by those arts that nations have grown great. But, in my humble
judgment, sir, as a citizen and a soldier, the only way to preserve
peace, and to ensure greatness, is to be at all times ready for war.
We must instil the martial spirit into our young men, we must rouse
their fighting blood, we must teach them the art of war, so that if
the flag is ever insulted or assailed they will be ready to protect it
with their bodies and their blood. Learn to fight; to fight honorably,
bravely, skillfully, and--to fight--hard."

"Father Richard Butler!"

It was Aunt Millicent who spoke. She had come on them from the hall
unawares, and had overheard the final words of the colonel's
adjuration.

"Father Richard Butler," she repeated, "what heresy is this you are
teaching to Pen?"

He made a brave but hopeless effort to justify his course.

"I am teaching him," he replied, "the duty that devolves upon every
patriotic citizen."

"Patriotic fiddlesticks!" she exclaimed. "I have no patience with such
blood-thirsty doctrines. And, Pen, listen! If I ever hear of your
fighting with anybody, at any time, you'll have your aunt Millicent to
deal with, I promise you that. Now come to supper, both of you."

It was not until nearly the close of the afternoon session on the
following day that Miss Grey referred to the unfortunate incident of
the day before. She expressed her keen regret, and her sense of
humiliation, over the occurrence that had marred the program, and
requested Elmer Cuddeback, Aleck Sands and Penfield Butler to remain
after school that she might confer with them concerning some proper
form of apology to Colonel Butler. But when she had the three boys
alone with her, and referred to the shameful discourtesy with which
the donor of the flag had been treated, tears came into her eyes, and
her voice trembled to the point of breaking. No one could have helped
feeling sorry for her; especially the three boys who were most
concerned.

"I don't think," said Pen, consolingly, "that grandfather minded it
very much. He doesn't talk as if he did."

"Let us hope," she replied, "that he was not too greatly shocked, or
too deeply disgusted. Elmer, your conduct was wholly inexcusable, and
I'm going to punish you. But, Pen, you and Aleck are the leaders, and
I want this disgraceful feud between you up-town and down-town boys to
stop. I want you both to promise me that this will be the end of it."

She looked from one to the other appealingly, but, for a moment,
neither boy replied. Then Aleck spoke up.

"Our fellows," he said, "feel pretty sore over the way I was treated
yesterday; and I don't believe they'd be willing to give up till they
get even somehow."

To which Pen responded:

"They're welcome to try to get even if they want to. Were ready for
'em."

Miss Grey threw up her hands in despair.

"Oh boys! boys!" she exclaimed. "Why will you be so foolish and
obstinate? What kind of men do you suppose you'll make if you spend
your school-days quarreling and fighting with each other?"

"Well, I don't know," replied Pen. "My grandfather thinks it isn't
such a bad idea for boys to try their mettle on each other, so long as
they fight fair. He thinks they'll make better soldiers sometime. And
he says the country is going to need soldiers after awhile."

She looked up in surprise.

"But I don't want my boys to become soldiers," she protested. "I don't
want war. I don't believe in it. I hate it."

She had reason to hate war, for her own father had been wounded at
Chancellorsville, and she remembered her mother's long years of
privation and sorrow. Again her lip trembled and her eyes filled with
tears. There was an awkward pause; for each boy sympathized with her
and would have been willing to help her had a way been opened that
would not involve too much of sacrifice. Elmer Cuddeback, even in the
face of his forthcoming punishment, was still the most tenderhearted
of the three, and he struggled to her relief.

"Can't--can't we make some sort o' compromise?" he suggested.

But Pen, too, had been thinking, and an idea had occurred to him. And
before any reply could be made to Elmer's suggestion he offered his
own solution to the difficulty.

"I'll tell you what I'll do, Miss Grey," he said, "and what I'll get
our fellows to do. We'll have one, big snowball fight. And the side
that gets licked 'll stay licked till school's out next spring. And
there won't be any more scrapping all winter. We'll do that, won't we,
Elmer?"

"Sure we will," responded Elmer confidently.

Aleck did not reply. Miss Grey thought deeply for a full minute.
Perhaps, after all, Pen's proposition pointed to the best way out of
the difficulty. Indeed, it was the only way along which there now
seemed to be any light. She turned to Aleck.

"Well," she asked, "what do you think of it?"

"Why, I don't know," he replied. "I'd like to talk with some of our
fellows about it first."

He was always cautious, conservative, slow to act unless the emergency
called for action.

"No," replied Pen. "I won't wait. It's a fair offer, and you'll take
it now or let it alone."

"Then," said Aleck, doggedly, "I'll take it, and you'll be sorry you
ever made it."

Lest active hostilities should break out at once, Miss Grey
interrupted:

"Now, boys, I don't approve of it. I don't approve of it at all. I
think young men like you should be in better business than pelting
each other, even with snowballs. But, as it appears to be the only way
out of the difficulty, and in the hope that it will put an end to this
ridiculous feud, I'm willing that you should go ahead and try it. Do
it and have it over with as soon as possible, and don't let me know
when it's going to happen, or anything about it, until you're all
through."

It was with deep misgivings concerning the success of the plan that
she dismissed the boys; and more than once during the next few days
she was on the point of withdrawing her permission for the fight to
take place. Many times afterwards she regretted keenly that she had
not done so.




CHAPTER IV


When Pen told his grandfather that a snowball fight had been decided
upon as the method of settling the controversy between the Hilltops
and the Riverbeds, and that Miss Grey had given her permission to that
effect, the old gentleman chuckled gleefully.

"A very wise young woman," he said; "very wise indeed. When will the
sanguinary conflict take place?"

"Why," replied Pen, "the first day the snow melts good."

"I see. I suppose you will lead the forces of Chestnut Hill?"

"I expect to; yes, sir."

"And our young friend, Master Sands, will marshal the troops of the
Valley?"

"Yes, sir; I suppose so."

"You will have to look out for that young man, Penfield. He strikes me
as being very much of a strategist."

"I'm not afraid of him."

"Don't be over-confident. Over-confidence has lost many a battle."

"Well, we'll lick 'em anyway. We've got to."

"That's the proper spirit. Determination, persistence, bravery,
hard-fighting--Hush! Here comes your aunt Millicent."

Colonel Butler was as bold as a lion in the presence of every one save
his daughter. Against her determination his resolution melted like
April snow. She loved him devotedly, she cared for him tenderly, but
she ruled him with a rod of iron. In only one matter did his stubborn
will hold out effectually against hers. No persuasion, no demand on
her part, could induce him to change his attitude towards Pen's
mother. He chose to consider his daughter-in-law absolutely and
permanently outside of his family, and outside of his consideration,
and there the matter had rested for a decade, and was likely to rest
so long as he drew breath.

That night, after Pen had retired to his room, there came a gentle
knock at his open door. His grandfather stood there, holding in his
hand a small volume of Upton's military tactics which he had used in
the Civil War.

"I thought this book might be of some service to you, Penfield," he
explained. "It will give you a good idea of the proper methods to be
used in handling large or small bodies of troops."

"Thank you, grandfather," said Pen, taking the book. "I'll study it.
I'm sure it'll help me."

"Nevertheless," continued the colonel, "there must be courage and
persistency as well as tactics, if battles are to be won. You
understand?"

"Yes, grandfather."

The old man turned away, but turned back again.

"A--Penfield," he said, "when you are absent from your room will you
kindly have the book in such a locality that your Aunt Millicent will
not readily discover it?"

"Yes, grandfather."

The winter weather at Chestnut Hill was not favorable for war. The
mercury lingered in the neighborhood of zero day after day. Snow
fell, drifted, settled; but did not melt. It was plain that ammunition
could not be made of such material. So the battle was delayed. But the
opposing forces nevertheless utilized the time. There were secret
drills. There were open discussions. Plans of campaign were regularly
adopted, and as regularly discarded. Yet both sides were constantly
ready.

A strange result of the situation was that there had not been better
feeling between the factions for many months. Good-natured boasts
there were, indeed. But of malice, meanness, open resentment, there
was nothing. Every one was willing to waive opportunities for
skirmishing, in anticipation of the one big battle.

It was well along in February before the weather moderated. Then, one
night, it grew warm. The next morning gray fog lay over all the
snow-fields. Rivulets of water ran in the gutters, and little pools
formed in low places everywhere. War time had at last come. Evidently
nature intended this to be the battle day. It was Saturday and there
was no session of the school.

The commander of the Hilltops called his forces together early, and a
plan of battle was definitely formed. Messengers, carrying a flag of
truce, communicated with the Riverbeds, and it was agreed that the
fight should take place that afternoon on the vacant plot in the rear
of the school building. It was thought best by the Hilltops, however,
to reconnoiter in force, and to prepare the field for the conflict.
So, sixteen strong, they went forth to the place selected for the
fray. They saw nothing of the enemy; the lot was still vacant. They
began immediately to throw up breast-works. They rolled huge snowballs
down the slightly sloping ground to the spot selected for a fort.
These snowballs were so big that, by the time they reached their
destination, it took at least a half dozen boys to put each one into
place. They squared them up, and laid them carefully in a curved line
ten blocks long and three blocks high, with the requisite embrasures.
Then they prepared their ammunition. They made snowballs by the
score, and piled them in convenient heaps inside the barricade. By the
time this work was finished it was noon. Then, leaving a sufficient
force to guard the fortifications, the remainder of the troops sallied
forth to luncheon, among them the leader of the Hilltops. At the
luncheon table Pen took advantage of the temporary absence of his aunt
to inform his grandfather, in a stage-whisper, that the long
anticipated fight was scheduled for that afternoon.

"And," he added, "we've got the biggest snow fort you ever saw, and
dead loads of snowballs inside."

The colonel smiled and his eyes twinkled.

"Good!" he whispered back. "Smite them hip and thigh. Hold the fort!
'Stand: the ground's your own, my braves!'"

"We're ready for anything."

"Bravo! Beware of the enemy's strategy, and fight hard. Fight as
if--ah! your Aunt Millicent's coming."

At one o'clock the first division returned and relieved the garrison;
and at two every soldier was back and in his place. The breast-works
were strengthened, more ammunition was made, and heaps of raw material
for making still more were conveniently placed. But the enemy did not
put in an appearance. A half hour went by, and another half hour, and
the head of the first hostile soldier was yet to be seen approaching
above the crest of the hill. Crowds of small boys, non-combatants,
were lined up against the school-house, awaiting, with anxiety and
awe, the coming battle. Out in the road a group of girls, partisans of
the Hilltops, was assembled to cheer their friends on to victory. Men,
passing by on foot and with teams, stopped to inquire concerning the
war-like preparations, and some of them, on whose hands it may be that
time was hanging heavily, stood around awaiting the outbreak of
hostilities.

Still the enemy was nowhere in sight. A squad, under command of
Lieutenant Cuddeback, was sent out to the road to reconnoiter. They
returned and reported that they had been to the brow of the hill, but
had failed to discover any hostile troops. Was it possible that the
Riverbeds had weakened, backed out, decided, like the cowards that
they were, not to fight, after all? It was in the midst of an animated
discussion over this possibility that the defenders of the fort were
startled by piercing yells from the neighborhood of the stone fence
that bounded the school-house lot in the rear. Looking in that
direction they were thunderstruck to see the enemy's soldiers pouring
over the wall and advancing vigorously toward them. With rare strategy
the Riverbeds, instead of approaching by the front, had come up the
hill on the back road, crept along under cover of barns and fences
until the school-house lot was reached, and now, with terrific shouts,
were crossing the stone-wall to hurl themselves impetuously on the
foe.

For a moment consternation reigned within the fort. The surprise was
overwhelming. Pen was the first one, as he should have been, to
recover his wits. He remembered his grandfather's warning against the
enemy's strategy.

"It's a trick!" he shouted. "Don't let 'em scare you! Load up and at
'em!"

Every boy seized his complement of snowballs, and, led by their
captain, the Hilltops started out, on double-quick, to meet the enemy.

The next moment the air was filled with flying missiles. They were
fired at close range, and few, from either side, failed to find their
mark.

The battle was swift and fierce. An onslaught from the Riverbeds'
left, drove the right wing of the Hilltops back into the shadow of the
fort. But the center held its ground and fought furiously. Then the
broken right wing, supplied with fresh ammunition from the reserve
piles, rallied, forced the invaders back, turned their flank, and fell
on them from the rear. The Riverbeds, with ammunition all but
exhausted, were hard beset. They fought bravely and persistently but
they could not stand up before the terrific rain of missiles that was
poured in on them. They yielded, they retreated, but they went with
their faces to the foe. There was only one avenue of escape, and that
was down by the side of the school-house to the public road. It was
inch by inch that they withdrew. No army ever beat a more stubborn or
masterly retreat. In the face of certain defeat, at scarcely arm's
length from their shouting and exultant foe, they fought like heroes.

Pen Butler was in the thickest and hottest of the fray. He urged his
troops to the assault, and was not afraid to lead them. The militant
blood of his ancestors burned in his veins, and, if truth must be
told, it trickled in little streams down his face from a battered nose
and a cut lip received at a close quarter's struggle with the enemy.

The small boys by the school-house, seeing the line of battle
approaching them, beat a retreat to a less hazardous position. The
girls in the road clung to each other and looked on, fascinated and
awe-stricken at the furious fight, forgetting to wave a single
handkerchief, or emit a single cheer. The men on the side-path clapped
their hands and yelled encouragement to one or other of the contending
forces, in accordance with their sympathies.

The first of the retreating troops, still contesting stubbornly the
foe's advance, reached the corner of the school-house nearest the
public road. By some chance the entrance door of the building was
ajar. A soldier's quick eye discovered it. Here was shelter,
protection, a chance to recuperate and reform. He shouted the good
news to his comrades, pushed the door open and entered. By twos and
threes, and then in larger groups, they followed him until the very
last man of them was safe inside, and the door was slammed shut and
locked in the faces of the foe. Under the impetus of the charge the
victorious troops broke against the barrier, but it held firm. That it
did so hold was one of the providential occurrences of the day. So, at
last, the Hilltops were foiled and baffled. Their victory was not
complete. Pen stood on the top step at the entrance, his face smeared
with blood, and angrily declared his determination, by one means or
another, to hunt the enemy out from their place of shelter, and drive
them down the hill into their own riverbed, where they belonged. But,
in spite of his extravagant declaration, nothing could be done without
a breach of the law. Doors and windows must not be broken.
Temporarily, at least, the enemy was safe.

After a consultation among the Hilltops it was decided to take up a
position across the road from the school-house, and await the
emergence of the foe. But the foe appeared to be in no haste to
emerge. It was warm inside. They were safe from attack. They could
take their ease and wait. And they did. The minutes passed. A half
hour went by. A drizzling rain had set in, and the young soldiers at
the roadside were getting uncomfortably wet. The small boys, who had
looked on, departed by twos and threes. The girls, after cheering the
heroes of the fight, also sought shelter. The men, who had been
interested spectators while the battle was on, drifted away. It isn't
encouraging to stand out in the rain, doing nothing but stamping wet
feet, and wait for a beaten foe to come out. Enthusiasm for a cause is
apt to wane when one has to stand, shivering, in rain-soaked clothes,
and wait for something to occur. And enthusiasm did wane. A majority
of the boys wanted to call it a victory and go home. But Pen would not
listen to such a proposal.

"They've run into the school-house," he said, "like whipped dogs, and
locked the door; and now, if we go home, they'll come out and boast
that we were afraid to meet 'em again. They'll say that we slunk away
before the fight was half over. I won't let 'em say that. I'll stay
here all night but what I'll give 'em the final drubbing."

But his comrades were not equally determined. The war spirit seemed to
have died out in their breasts, and, try as he would, Pen was not able
to restore it.

Yet, even as he argued, the school-house door opened and the besieged
army marched forth. They marched forth, indeed, but this time they had
an American flag at the head of their column. It was carried by, and
folded and draped around the body of, Alexander Sands. It was the flag
that Colonel Butler had given to the school. Whose idea it was to use
it thus has never been disclosed. But surely no more effective means
could have been adopted to cover an orderly retreat. The Hilltop
forces stared at the spectacle in amazement and stood silent in their
tracks. Pen was the first to recover his senses. If he had been angry
when the enemy came upon them unawares from the stone-wall, he was
furious now.

"It's another trick!" he cried, "a mean, contemptible trick! They
think the flag'll save 'em but it won't! Come on! We'll show 'em!"

He started toward the advancing column, firing his first snowball as
he went; a snowball that flattened and spattered against the
flag-covered breast of Aleck Sands. But his soldiers did not follow
him. No leader, however magnetic, could have induced them to assault a
body of troops marching under the protecting folds of the American
flag. They revered the colors, and they stood fast in their places.
Pen leaped the ditch, and, finding himself alone, stopped to look
back.

"What's the matter?" he cried. "Are you all afraid?"

"It's the flag," answered Elmer Cuddeback, "and I won't fight anybody
that carries it."

"Nor I," said Jimmie Morrissey.

"Nor I;" "Nor I," echoed one after another.

Then, indeed, Pen's temper went to fever heat. He faced his own troops
and denounced them.

"Traitors!" he yelled. "Cowards! every one of you! To be scared by a
mere piece of bunting! Babies! Go home and have your mothers put you
to bed! I'll fight 'em single-handed!"

He was as good as his word. He plunged toward the head of the column,
which had already reached the middle of the public road.

"Don't you dare to touch the flag!" cried Aleck.

"And don't you dare to tell me what I shall not touch," retorted Pen.
"Drop it, or I'll tear it off of you."

But Aleck only drew the folds more tightly about him and braced
himself for the onset. He clutched the staff with one hand; and the
other hand, duly clenched, he thrust into his adversary's face. For a
moment Pen was staggered by the blow, then he gathered himself
together and leaped upon his opponent. The fight was on: fast and
furious. The followers of each leader, appalled at the fierceness of
the combat, stood as though frozen in their places. The flag, clutched
by both fighters, was in danger of being torn from end to end. Then
came the clinch. Gripping, writhing, twisting, tangled in the colors,
the lithe young bodies wavered to their fall. And when they fell the
flag fell with them, into the grime and slush of the road. In an
instant Pen was on his feet again, but Aleck did not rise. He pulled
himself slowly to his elbow and looked around him as though
half-dazed.

That Pen was the victor there was no doubt. His face streaked with
blood and distorted with passion, he stood there and glared
triumphantly on friend and foe alike. That he was standing on the flag
mattered little to him in that moment. He was like one crazed. Some
one shouted to him:

"Get off the flag! You're standing on it!"

"What's that to you?" he yelled back. "I'll stand where I like!"

"It's the flag of your country. Get off of it!"

"What do I care for my country or for you. I've won this fight,
single-handed, in spite of any flag, or any country, or any coward
here, and I'll stand where I choose!"

He stood fast in his place and glared defiantly about him, and in all
the company there was not one who dared approach him.

But it was only for a moment. Some impulse moved him to look down.
Under his heels the white stars on their blue field were being ground
into the mire. A sudden revulsion of feeling swept over him, a sense
of horror at his own conduct. His arms fell to his sides. His face
paled till the blood splashes on it stood out startlingly distinct. He
moved slowly and carefully backward till the folds of the banner were
no longer under his feet. He cast one fleeting glance at his worsted
adversary who was still half-lying, half-sitting, with the flag under
his elbows, then, his passion quenched, shame and remorse over his
unpatriotic conduct filling his heart, without another word he turned
his back on his companions, thrust his bleeding hands into his
pockets, and started up the road, toward home; his one thought being
to leave as quickly and quietly as possible the scene of his disgrace.
No one followed him, no one called after him; he went alone. He was
hatless and ragged. His rain-soaked garments clung to him with an
indescribable chill. The fire of his anger had burned itself out, and
had left in its place the ashes of despondency and despair. Yet, even
in that hour of depression and self-accusation, he did not dream of
the far-reaching consequences of this one unpremeditated act of
inexcusable folly of which he had just been guilty. He bent down and
gathered some wet snow into his hands and bathed his face, and sopped
it half dry with his handkerchief, already soaked. Then, not caring,
in his condition, to show himself on the main street of the village,
he crossed over to the lane that skirted the out-lots, and went thence
by a circuitous and little traveled route, to Bannerhall.

In the meantime, back in the road by the school-house, Aleck Sands had
picked himself up, still a little dazed, but not seriously hurt, and
soldiers who had recently faced each other in battle came with
unanimity to the rescue of the flag. Hilltops and Riverbeds alike, all
differences and enmities forgotten in this new crisis, they joined in
gathering up the wet and muddy folds, and in bearing them to the
warmth and shelter of the school-house. Here they washed out the
stains, and stretched the banner out to dry, and at dusk, exhausted
and sobered by the events of the day, with serious faces and
apprehensive hearts, they went to their several homes.




CHAPTER V


When Pen reached home on that afternoon after the battle of Chestnut
Hill, he found that his Aunt Millicent was out, and that his
grandfather had not yet returned from Lowbridge, the county seat,
fourteen miles away. He had therefore an opportunity, unseen and
unquestioned, to change his wet clothing for dry, and to bathe and
anoint and otherwise care for his cuts and bruises. When it was all
done he went down to the library and lighted the gas, and found a book
and tried to read. But the words he read were meaningless. Try as he
would he could not keep his mind on the printed page. Nor was it so
much the snowball fight that occupied his thoughts. He was not now
exulting at any victory he had obtained over his foes. He was not even
dwelling on the strategy and trickery displayed by Aleck Sands and his
followers in seeking protection under the folds of the flag; strategy
and trickery which had led so swiftly and sharply to his own undoing.
It was his conduct in that last, fierce moment of the fight that was
blazoned constantly before his eyes with ever increasing strength of
accusation. To think that he, Penfield Butler, grandson of the owner
of Bannerhall, had permitted himself, in a moment of passion, no
matter what the provocation, to grind his country's flag into the
slush under his heels; the very flag given by his grandfather to the
school of which he was himself a member. How should he ever square
himself with Colonel Richard Butler? How should he ever make it right
with Miss Grey? How should he ever satisfy his own accusing
conscience? Excuses for his conduct were plenty enough indeed; his
excitement, his provocation, his freedom from malice; he marshalled
them in orderly array; but, under the cold logic of events, one by one
they crumbled and fell away. More and more heavily, more and more
depressingly the enormity of his offense weighed upon him as he
considered it, and what the outcome of it all would be he did not even
dare to conjecture.

At half past five his Aunt Millicent returned. She looked in at him
from the hall, greeted him pleasantly, said something about the
miserable weather, and then went on about her household duties.

Dinner had been waiting for fifteen minutes before Colonel Butler
reached home, and, in the mild excitement attendant upon his return,
Pen's injuries escaped notice. But, at the dinner-table, under the
brightness of the hanging lamps, he could no longer conceal his
condition. Aunt Millicent was the first to discover it.

"Why, Pen!" she exclaimed, "what on earth has happened to you?"

And Pen answered, frankly enough:

"I've been in a snowball fight, Aunt Milly."

"Well, I should say so!" she replied. "Your face is a perfect sight.
Father, just look at Pen's face."

Colonel Butler adjusted his eye-glasses deliberately, and looked as he
was bidden to do.

"Some rather severe contusions," he remarked. "A bit painful,
Penfield?"

"Not so very," replied Pen, "I washed 'em off and put on some Pond's
extract, and some court-plaster, and I guess they'll be all right."

The colonel was still looking at Pen's wounds, and smiling as he
looked.

"The nature of the injuries," he said, "indicates that the fighting
must have been somewhat strenuous. But honorable scars, won on the
field of battle, are something in which any man may take pardonable--"

"Father Richard Butler!" exclaimed Aunt Millicent. "Aren't you ashamed
of yourself! Pen, let this be the last snowball fight you indulge in
while you live in this house. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, Aunt Millicent. There won't be any more; not any more at all."

"I should hope not," she replied; "with such a looking face as you've
got."

Colonel Butler was temporarily subdued. Only the merry twinkle in his
eyes, and the smile that hovered about the corners of his mouth, still
attested the satisfaction he was feeling in his grandson's military
prowess. He could not, however, restrain his curiosity until the end
of the meal, and, at the risk of evoking another rebuke from his
daughter, he inquired of Pen:

"A--Penfield, may I ask in which direction the tide of battle finally
turned?"

"I believe we licked 'em, grandfather," replied Pen. "We drove 'em
into the school-house anyway."

"Not, I presume, before some severe preliminary fighting had taken
place?"

"There you go again, father!" exclaimed Aunt Millicent. "It's nothing
but 'fighting, fighting,' from morning to night. What kind of a man do
you think Pen will grow up to be, with such training as this?"

"A very useful, brave and patriotic citizen, I hope, my dear."

"Fiddlesticks!" It was Aunt Millicent's favorite ejaculation. But the
colonel did not refer to the battle again at the table. It was not
until after he had retired to the library, and had taken up his
favorite position, his back to the fire, his eyes resting on the
silken banner in the hall, that he plied Pen with further questions.
His daughter not being in the room he felt that he might safely resume
the subject of the fight.

"I would like a full report of the battle, Penfield," he said. "It
appears to me that it is likely to go down as a most important event
in the history of the school."

Pen shook his head deprecatingly, but he did not at once reply.
Impatient at the delay, which he ascribed to the modesty
characteristic of the brave and successful soldier, the colonel began
to make more definite inquiry.

"In what manner was the engagement opened, Penfield?"

And Pen replied:

"Well, you know we built a snow fort in the school-house lot; and they
sneaked up the back road, and cut across lots where we couldn't see
'em, and jumped on us suddenly from the stone-wall."

"Strategy, my boy. Military strategy deserving of a good cause. And
how did you meet the attack?"

"Why, we pulled ourselves together and went for 'em."

"Well? Well? What happened?"

The colonel was getting excited and impatient.

"Well, we fought 'em and drove 'em down to the front of the
school-house, and then they opened the door and sneaked in, just as I
told you, and locked us out."

"Ah! more strategy. The enemy had brains. But you should have laid
siege and starved him out."

"We did lay siege, grandfather."

"And did you starve him out?"

"No, they came out."

"And you renewed the attack?"

"Some of us did."

"Well, go on! go on! What happened? Don't compel me to drag the story
out of you piecemeal, this way."

"Why, they--they played us another mean trick."

"What was the nature of it?"

"Well--you know that flag you gave the school?"

"Yes."

"They carried that flag ahead of 'em, Aleck Sands had it wrapped
around him, and then--our fellows were afraid to fight."

"Strategy again. Military genius, indeed! But it strikes me, Penfield,
that the strategy was a bit unworthy."

"I thought it was a low-down trick."

"Well--a--let us say that it was not the act of a brave and generous
foe. The flag--the flag, Penfield, should be used for purposes of
inspiration rather than protection. However, the enemy, having placed
himself under the auspices and protection of the flag which should, in
any event, be unassailable, I presume he marched away in safety and
security?"

"Why, no--not exactly."

"Penfield, I trust that no one had the hardihood to assault the bearer
of his country's flag?"

"Grandfather, I couldn't help it. He made me mad."

"Don't tell me, sir, that you so far forgot yourself as to lead an
attack on the colors?"

"No, I didn't. I pitched into him alone. I had to lick him, flag or no
flag."

"Penfield, I'm astounded! I wouldn't have thought it of you. And what
happened, sir?"

"Why, we clinched and went down."

"But, the flag? the flag?"

"That went down too."

Colonel Butler left his place at the fire-side and crossed over to the
table where Pen sat, in order that he might look directly down on him.

"Am I to understand," he said, "that the colors of my country have
been wantonly trailed in the mire of the street?"

Under the intensity of that look, and the trembling severity of that
voice, Pen wilted and shrank into the depths of his cushioned chair.
He could only gasp:

"I'm afraid so, grandfather."

After that, for a full minute, there was silence in the room. When the
colonel again spoke his voice was low and tremulous. It was evident
that his patriotic nature had been deeply stirred.

"In what manner," he asked, "was the flag rescued and restored to its
proper place?"

And Pen answered truthfully:

"I don't know. I came away."

The boy was still sunk deep in his chair, his hands were desperately
clutching the arms of it, and on his pale face the wounds and bruises
stood out startlingly distinct.

In the colonel's breast grief and indignation were rapidly giving way
to wrath.

"And so," he added, his voice rising with every word, "you added
insult to injury; and having forced the nation's banner to the earth,
you deliberately turned your back on it and came away?"

Pen did not answer. He could not.

"I say," repeated the colonel, "you deliberately turned your back on
it, and came away?"

"Yes, sir."

Colonel Butler crossed back to the fire-place, and then he strode into
the hall. He put on his hat and was struggling into his overcoat when
his daughter came in from the dining-room and discovered him.

"Why, father!" she exclaimed, "where are you going?"

"I am going," he replied, "to perform a patriotic duty."

"Oh, don't go out again to-night," she pleaded. "You've had a hard
trip to-day, and you're tired. Let Pen do your errand. Pen, come
here!"

The boy came at her bidding. The colonel paused to consider.

"On second thought," he said, finally, "it may be better that I should
not go in person. Penfield, you will go at once, wherever it may be
necessary, and inquire as to the present condition and location of the
American flag belonging to the Chestnut Hill school, and return and
report to me."

"Yes, sir."

Pen put on his hat and coat, took his umbrella, and went out into the
rain. Six blocks away he stopped at Elmer Cuddeback's door and rang
the bell. Elmer himself came in answer to the ring.

"Come out on the porch a minute," said Pen. "I want to speak to you."

Elmer came out and closed the door behind him.

"Tell me," continued Pen, "what became of the flag this afternoon,
after I left."

"Oh, we picked it up and carried it into the school-house. Why?"

"My grandfather wants to know."

"Well, you can tell him it isn't hurt much. It got tore a little bit
in one corner; and it had some dirt on it. But we cleaned her up, and
dried her out, and put her back in her place."

"Thank you for doing it."

"Oh, that's all right. But, say, Pen, I'm sorry for you."

"Why?"

"On account of what happened."

"Did I hurt Aleck much?"

A sudden fear of worse things had entered Pen's mind.

"No, not much. He limped home by himself."

"Then, what is it?"

Pen knew, well enough, what it was; but he could not do otherwise than
ask.

"Why, it's because of what you did to the flag. Everybody's talking
about it."

"Let 'em talk. I don't care."

But he did care, nevertheless. He went back home in a fever of
apprehension and anxiety. Suppose his grandfather should learn the
whole truth, as, sooner or later he surely would. What then? Pen
decided that it would be better to tell him now.

At eight o'clock, when he returned home, he found Colonel Butler still
seated in the library, busy with a book. He removed his cap and coat
in the hall, and went in. The colonel looked up inquiringly.

"The flag," reported Pen, "was picked up by the boys, and carried back
to the school-house. It was cleaned and dried, and put in its proper
place."

"Thank you, sir; that is all."

The colonel turned his attention again to his book.

Pen stood, for a moment, irresolute, before proceeding with his
confession. Then he began:

"Grandfather, I'm very sorry for what occurred, and especially--"

"I do not care to hear any more to-night. Further apologies may be
deferred to a more appropriate time."

Again the colonel resumed his reading.

The next day was Sunday; but, on account of the unattractive
appearance of his face, Pen was excused from attending either church
or Sunday-school. Monday was Washington's birthday, and a holiday, and
there was no school. So that Pen had two whole days in which to
recover from his wounds. But he did not so easily recover from his
depression. Nothing more had been said by Colonel Butler about the
battle, and Pen, on his part, did not dare again to broach the
subject. Yet every hour that went by was filled with apprehension, and
punctuated with false alarms. It was evident that the colonel had not
yet heard the full story, and it was just as evident that the portion
of it that he had heard had disturbed him almost beyond precedent. He
was taciturn in speech, and severe and formal in manner. To misuse and
neglect the flag of his country was, indeed, no venial offense in his
eyes.

Pen had not been out all day Monday, save to go on one or two
unimportant errands for his aunt. Why he had not cared to go out was
not quite clear, even to himself. Ordinarily he would have sought his
schoolfellows, and would have exhibited his wounds, these silent and
substantial witnesses of his personal prowess, with "pardonable
pride." Nor did his schoolfellows come to seek him. That was strange
too. Why had they not dropped in, as was their custom, to talk over
the battle? It was almost dark of the second day, and not a single boy
had been to see him or inquire for him. It was more than strange; it
was ominous.

After the evening meal Colonel Butler went out; a somewhat unusual
occurrence, as, in his later years, he had become increasingly fond of
his books and papers, his wood-fire and his easy chair. But, on this
particular evening, there was to be a meeting of a certain patriotic
society of which he was an enthusiastic member, and he felt that he
must attend it. After he had gone Pen tried to study, but he could not
keep his thought on his work. Then he took up a stirring piece of
fiction and began to read: but the most exciting scenes depicted in it
floated hazily across his mind. His Aunt Millicent tried to engage him
in conversation, but he either could not or did not wish to talk. At
nine o'clock he said good-night to his aunt, and retired to his room.
At half past nine Colonel Butler returned home. His daughter went into
the hall and greeted him and helped him off with his coat, but he
scarcely spoke to her. When he came in under the brighter lights of
the library, she saw that his face was haggard, his jaws set, and his
eyes strangely bright.

"What is it, father?" she said. "Something has happened."

He did not reply to her question, but he asked:

"Has Penfield retired?"

"He went to his room a good half hour ago, father."

"I desire to see him."

"He may have gone to bed."

"I desire to see him under any circumstances. You will please
communicate my wish to him."

"But, father--"

"Did you hear me, daughter?"

"Father! What terrible thing has happened?"

"A thing so terrible that I desire confirmation of it from Penfield's
lips before I shall fully believe it. You will please call him."

She could not disobey that command. She went tremblingly up the stairs
and returned in a minute or two to say:

"Pen had not yet gone to bed, father. He will be down as soon as he
puts on his coat and shoes."

"Very well."

Colonel Butler seated himself in his accustomed chair and awaited the
advent of his grandson.

When Pen entered the library a few minutes later, his Aunt Millicent
was still in the room.

"Millicent," said the colonel, "will you be good enough to retire for
a time? I wish to speak to Penfield alone."

She rose and started toward the hall, but turned back again.

"Father," she said, "if Pen is to be reprimanded for anything he has
done, I wish to know about it."

"This is a matter," replied the colonel, severely, "that can be
adjusted only between Penfield and me."

She saw that he was determined, and left the room.

When the rustle attendant upon her ascent of the staircase had died
completely out, the colonel turned toward Pen. He spoke quietly
enough, but with an emotion that was plainly suppressed.

"Penfield, you may stand where you are and answer certain questions
that I shall ask you."

"Yes, grandfather."

"While in attendance this evening, upon a meeting of gentlemen
gathered for a patriotic purpose, I was told that you, Penfield
Butler, had, on Saturday last, on the school-house grounds, trodden
deliberately on the American flag lying in the slush of the street. Is
the story true, sir?"

"Well, grandfather, it was this way. I was--"

"I desire, sir, a categorical reply. Did you, or did you not, stand
upon the American flag?"

"Yes, sir; I believe I did."

"I am also credibly informed that you spoke disdainfully of this
particular American flag as a mere piece of bunting? Did you use
those words?"

"I don't know what I said, grandfather."

"Is it possible that you could have spoken thus disrespectfully of
your country's flag?"

"It is possible; yes, sir."

"I am further informed that, on the same occasion, in language of
which I have no credible report, you expressed your contempt for your
country herself. Is my information correct?"

"I may have done so."

Pen felt himself growing weak and unsteady under this fire of
questions, and he moved forward a little and grasped the back of a
chair for support. The colonel, paying no heed to the boy's pitiable
condition, went on with his examination.

"Now, then, sir," he said, "if you have any explanation to offer you
may give it."

"Well, grandfather, I was very angry at the use they'd put the flag
to, and I--well, I didn't just know what I was doing."

Pen's voice had died away almost to a whisper.

"And that," said the colonel, "is your only excuse?"

"Yes, sir. Except that I didn't mean it; not any of it."

"Of course you didn't mean it. If you had meant it, it would have been
a crime instead of a gross offense. But the fact remains that, in the
heat of passion, without forethought, without regard to your patriotic
ancestry, you have wantonly defamed your country and heaped insults on
her flag."

Pen tried to speak, but he could not. He clung to the back of his
chair and stood mute while the colonel went on:

"My paternal grandfather, sir, fought valiantly in the army of General
Putnam in the Revolutionary war, and my maternal grandfather was an
aide to General Washington. My father helped to storm the heights of
Chapultepec in 1847 under that invincible commander, General Worth. I,
myself, shared the vicissitudes of the Army of the Potomac, through
three years of the civil war. And now it has come to this, that my
grandson has trodden under his feet the flag for which his gallant
ancestors fought, and has defamed the country for which they shed
their blood."

The colonel's voice had risen as he went on, until now, vibrant with
emotion, it echoed through the room. He rose from his chair and began
pacing up and down the library floor.

Still Pen stood mute. Even if he had had the voice to speak there was
nothing more that he could say. It seemed to him that it was hours
that his grandfather paced the floor, and it was a relief to have him
stop and speak again, no matter what he should say.

"I have decided," said the colonel, "that you shall apologize for your
offense. It is the least reparation that can be made. Your apology
will be in public, at your school, and will be directed to your
teacher, to your country, to your flag, and to Master Sands who was
bearing the colors at the time of the assault."

Before his teacher, his country and his flag, Pen would have been
willing to humble himself into the dust. But, to apologize to Aleck
Sands!

Colonel Butler did not wait for a reply, but sat down at his desk and
arranged his materials for writing.

"I shall communicate my purpose to Miss Grey," he said, "in a letter
which you will take to her to-morrow."

Then, for the first time in many minutes, Pen found his voice.

"Grandfather, I shall be glad to apologize to Miss Grey, and to my
country, and to the flag, but is it necessary for me to apologize to
Aleck Sands?"

Colonel Butler swung around in his swivel-chair, and faced the boy
almost savagely:

"Do you presume, sir," he exclaimed, "to dictate the conditions of
your pardon? I have fixed the terms. They shall be complied with to
the letter--to the letter, sir. And if you refuse to abide by them you
will be required to withdraw to the home of your maternal grandfather,
where, I have no doubt, your conduct will be disregarded if not
approved. But I will not harbor, under the roof of Bannerhall, a
person who has been guilty of such disloyalty as yours, and who
declines to apologize for his offense."

Having delivered himself of this ultimatum, the colonel again turned
to his writing-desk and proceeded to prepare his letter to Miss Grey.
Apparently it did not occur to him that his demand, thus definitely
made, might still be refused.

After what seemed to Pen to be an interminable time, his grandfather
ceased writing, laid aside his pen, and turned toward him holding a
written sheet from which he read:

    "Bannerhall, Chestnut Hill, Pa.
                       February 22.

    "_My dear Miss Grey:_

    "It is with the deepest regret that I have to advise you that my
    grandson, Penfield Butler, on Saturday last, by his own
    confession, dishonored the colors belonging to your school, and
    made certain derogatory remarks concerning his country and his
    flag, for which offenses he desires now to make reparation. Will
    you therefore kindly permit him, at the first possible
    opportunity, to apologize for his reprehensible conduct, publicly,
    to his teacher, to his country and to his flag, and especially to
    Master Alexander Sands, the bearer of the flag, who, though not
    without fault in the matter, was, nevertheless, at the time,
    under the protection of the colors.

    "Master Butler will report to me the fulfillment of this request.
    With personal regards and apologies, I remain,

      "Your obedient servant,
        "Richard Butler."

He folded the letter, placed it in an envelope, and handed it to Pen.

"You will deliver this to Miss Grey," he said, "on your arrival at
school to-morrow morning. That is all to-night. You may retire."

Pen took the letter, thanked his grandfather, bade him good-night,
turned and went out into the hall, and up-stairs to his room.




CHAPTER VI


It is little wonder that Pen passed a sleepless night, after the
interview with his grandfather. He realized now, perhaps better than
any one else, the seriousness of his offense. Knowing, so well as he
did, Colonel Butler's reverence for all things patriotic, he did not
wonder that he should be so deeply indignant. Pen, himself, felt that
the least he could do, under the circumstances, was to publicly
apologize for his conduct, bitter and humiliating as it would be to
make such an apology. And he was willing to apologize to any one, to
anything--save Alexander Sands. To this point of reparation he could
not bring himself. This was the problem with which he struggled
through the night hours. It was not a question, he told himself, over
and over again, of whether he should leave Bannerhall, with its ease
and luxury and choice traditions, and go to live on the little farm at
Cobb's Corners. It was a question of whether he was willing to yield
his self-respect and manhood to the point of humbling himself before
Alexander Sands. It was not until he heard the clock in the hall
strike three that he reached his decision.

And his decision was, to comply, in full, with his grandfather's
demand--and remain at Bannerhall.

At the breakfast table the next morning Colonel Butler was still
reticent and taciturn. He had passed an uncomfortable night and was in
no mood for conversation. He did not refer, in any way, to the matters
which had been discussed the evening before; and when Pen, with the
letter in his pocket, started for school, the situation was entirely
unchanged. But, somehow, in the freshness of the morning, under the
cheerful rays of an unclouded sun, the task that had been set for Pen
did not seem to him to be quite so difficult and repulsive as it had
seemed the night before. He even deigned to whistle as he went down
the path to the street. But he noticed, as he passed along through the
business section of the town, that people whom he knew looked at him
curiously, and that those who spoke to him did so with scant courtesy.
Across the street, from the corner of his eye, he saw one man call
another man's attention to him, and both men turned their heads, for a
moment, to watch him. A little farther along he caught sight of Elmer
Cuddeback, his bosom companion, a half block ahead, and he called out
to him:

"Hey! Elmer, wait a minute!"

But Elmer did not wait. He looked back to see who had called to him,
and then he replied:

"I can't! I got to catch up with Jimmie Morrissey."

And he started off on a run. This was the cut direct. There was no
mistaking it. It sent a new fear to Pen's heart. It served to explain
why his schoolfellows had not been to see him and sympathize with him.
He had not before fully considered what effect his conduct of the
previous Saturday might have upon those who had been his best friends.
But Elmer's action was suspiciously expressive. It was more than that,
it was ominous and forbidding. Pen trudged on alone. A group of a
half dozen boys who had heretofore recognized him as their leader,
turned a corner into Main street, and went down on the other side. He
did not call to them, nor did they pay any attention to him, except
that, once or twice, some of them looked back, apparently to see
whether he was approaching them. But his ears burned. He knew they
were discussing his fault.

In the school-house yard another group of boys was gathered. They were
so earnestly engaged in conversation that they did not notice Pen's
approach until he was nearly on them. Then one of them gave a low
whistle and instantly the talking ceased.

"Hello, fellows!" Pen made his voice and manner as natural and easy as
determined effort could make them.

Two or three of them answered "Hello!" in an indifferent way;
otherwise none of them spoke to him.

If the battle of Chestnut Hill had ended when the enemy had been
driven into the school-house, and if the conquering troops had then
gone home proclaiming their victory, these same boys who were now
treating him with such cold indifference, would have been flinging
their arms about his shoulders this morning, and proclaiming him to
the world as a hero; and Pen knew it. With flushed face and sinking
heart he turned away and entered the school-house.

Aleck Sands was already there, sitting back in a corner, surrounded by
sympathizing friends. He still bore marks of the fray.

As Pen came in some one in the group said:

"Here he comes now."

Another one added:

"Hasn't he got the nerve though, to show himself after what he done to
the flag?"

And a third one, not to be outdone, declared:

"Aw! He's a reg'lar Benedic' Arnold."

Pen heard it all, as they had intended he should. He stopped in the
aisle and faced them. The grief and despair that he had felt outside
when his own comrades had ignored him, gave place now to a sudden
blazing up of the old wrath. He did not raise his voice; but every
word he spoke was alive with anger.

"You cowardly puppies! You talk about the flag! The only flag you're
fit to live under is the black flag, with skull and cross-bones on
it."

Then he turned on his heel and marched up the aisle to where Miss Grey
was seated at her desk. He took Colonel Butler's letter from his
pocket and handed it to her.

"My grandfather," he said, "wishes me to give you this letter."

She looked up at him with a grieved and troubled face.

"Oh, Pen!" she exclaimed, despairingly, "what have you done, and why
did you do it?"

She was fond of the boy. He was her brightest and most gentlemanly
pupil. On only one or two other occasions, during the years of her
authority, had she found it necessary to reprimand him for giving way
to sudden fits of passion leading to infraction of her rules. So that
it was with deep and real sorrow that she deplored his recent conduct
and his present position.

"I don't know," he answered her. "I guess my temper got the best of
me, that's all."

"But, Pen, I don't know what to do. I'm simply at my wit's end."

"I'm sorry to have given you so much trouble, Miss Grey," he replied.
"But when it comes to punishing me, I think the letter will help you
out."

The bell had stopped ringing. The boys and girls had crowded in and
were already seated, awaiting the opening of school. Pen turned away
from his teacher and started down the aisle toward his seat, facing
his fellow-pupils as he went.

And then something happened; something unusual and terrible; something
so terrible that Pen's face went pale, he paused a moment and looked
ahead of him as though in doubt whether his ears had deceived him, and
then he dropped weakly into his seat. They had hissed him. From a far
corner of the room came the first sibilant sound, followed at once by
a chorus of hisses that struck straight to the boy's heart, and echoed
through his mind for years.

Miss Grey sprang to her feet. For the first time in all the years she
had taught them her pupils saw her fired with anger. She brought her
gavel down on the table with a bang.

"This is disgraceful!" she exclaimed. "We are in a school-room, not in
a goose-pond, nor in a den of snakes. I want every one who has hissed
to remain here when school closes at noon."

But it was not until after the opening exercises had been concluded,
and the younger children had gone out to the room of the assistant
teacher, that she found an opportunity to read Colonel Butler's
letter. It did help her out, as Pen had said it would. She resolved to
act immediately upon the request contained in it, before calling any
classes. She rose in her place.

"I have an unpleasant duty to perform," she said. "I hoped, when I
gave you boys permission to have the snowball fight, that it would
result in permanent peace among you. It has, apparently, served only
to embitter you more deeply against each other. The school colors have
been removed from the building without authority. With those guilty of
this offense I shall deal hereafter. The flag has been abused and
thrown into the slush of the street. As to this I shall not now decide
whose was the greater fault. But one, at least, of those concerned in
such treatment of our colors has realized the seriousness of his
misconduct, and desires to apologize for it, to his teacher, to his
country, to his flag, and to the one who was carrying it at the time
of the assault. Penfield, you may come to the platform."

But Pen did not stir. He sat there as though made of stone, that awful
hiss still sounding in his ears. Miss Grey's voice came to him as from
some great distance. He did not seem to realize what she was saying to
him. She saw his white face, and the vacant look in his eyes, and she
pitied him; but she had her duty to perform.

"Penfield," she repeated, "will you please come to the platform? We
are waiting for your apology."

This time Pen heard her and roused himself. He rose slowly to his
feet; but he did not move from his place. He spoke from where he
stood.

"Miss Grey," he said, "after what has occurred here this morning, I
have decided--not--to--apologize."

He bent over, picked up his books from the desk in front of him,
stepped out into the aisle, walked deliberately down between rows of
astounded schoolmates to the vestibule, put on his cap and coat, and
went out into the street.

No one called him back. He would not have gone if any one had. He
turned his face toward home. Whether or not people looked at him
curiously as he passed, he neither knew nor cared. He had been hissed
in public by his schoolfellows. No condemnation could be more severe
than this, or lead to deeper humiliation. Strong men have quailed
under this repulsive and terrible form of public disapproval. It is
little wonder that a mere schoolboy should be crushed by it. That he
could never go back to Miss Grey's school was perfectly plain to him.
That, having refused to apologize, he could not remain at Bannerhall,
was equally certain. One path only remained open to him, and that was
the snow-filled, country road leading to his grandfather Walker's
humble abode at Cobb's Corners.

When he reached home he found that his grandfather and his Aunt
Millicent had gone down the river road for a sleigh-ride. He did not
wait to consider anything, for there was really nothing to consider.
He went up to his room, packed his suit-case with some clothing and a
few personal belongings, and came down stairs and left his baggage in
the hall while he went into the library and wrote a letter to his
grandfather. When it was finished he read it over to himself, aloud:

    "_Dear Grandfather:_

    "After what happened at school this morning it was impossible for
    me to apologize, and keep any of my self-respect. So I am going to
    Cobb's Corners to live with my mother and Grandpa Walker, as you
    wished. Good-by!

      "Your affectionate grandson,
        "Penfield Butler."

    "P. S. Please give my love to Aunt Millicent."

He enclosed the letter in an envelope, addressed it, and left it lying
on the library table. Then he put on his cap and coat, took his
suit-case, and went out into the sunlight of the winter morning. At
the entrance gate he turned and looked back at Bannerhall, the wide
lawn, the noble trees, the big brick house with its hospitable porch,
the window of his own room, facing the street. Something rose in his
throat and choked him a little, but his eyes were dry as he turned
away. He knew the road to Cobb's Corners very well indeed. He had made
frequent visits to his mother there in the summer time. For,
notwithstanding his forbidding attitude, Colonel Butler recognized the
instinct that drew mother and child together, and never sought to deny
it proper expression. But it was hard traveling on the road to-day,
especially with a burden to carry, and Pen was glad when Henry Cobb, a
neighbor of Grandpa Walker, came along with horse and sleigh and
invited him to ride.

It was just after noon when he reached his grandfather's house, and
the members of the family were at dinner. They looked up in
astonishment when he entered.

"Why, Pen!" exclaimed his mother, "whatever brings you here to-day?"

"I've come to stay with you awhile, mother," he replied, "if grandpa
'll take me in."

"Of course grandpa 'll take you in."

And then, as mothers will, especially surprised mothers, she fell on
his neck and kissed him, and smiled through her tears.

"Well, I dunno," said Grandpa Walker, facetiously, balancing a
good-sized morsel of food carefully on the blade of his knife, "that
depen's on wuther ye're willin' to take pot-luck with us or not."

"I'm willing to take anything with you," replied Pen, "if you'll give
me a home till I can shift for myself."

He went around the table and kissed his grandmother who had, for
years, been partially paralyzed, shook hands with his Uncle Joseph and
Aunt Miranda, and greeted their little brood of offspring cheerfully.

"What's happened to ye, anyhow?" asked Grandpa Walker when the
greetings were over and a place had been prepared for Pen at the
table. "Dick Butler kick ye out; did he?"

"Not exactly," was the reply. "But he told me I couldn't stay there
unless I did a certain thing, and I didn't do it--I couldn't do
it--and so I came away."

"Jes' so. That's Dick Butler to a T. Ef ye don't give him his own way
in everything he aint no furder use for ye. Well, eat your dinner now,
an' tell us about it later."

So Pen ate his dinner. He was hungry, and, for the time being at
least, the echo of that awful hiss was not ringing in his ears. But
they would not let him finish eating until he had told them, in
detail, the cause of his coming. He made the story as brief as
possible, neither seeking to excuse himself nor to lay the blame on
others.

"Well," was Grandpa Walker's comment when the recital was finished, "I
dunno but what ye done all right enough. They ain't one o' them blame
little scalawags down to Chestnut Valley, but what deserves a good
thrashin' on gen'al principles. They yell names at me every time I go
down to mill, an' then cut an' run like blazes 'fore I can git at 'em
with a hoss-whip. I'm glad somebody's hed the grace to wallop 'em. And
es for Dick Butler; he's too allfired pompous an' domineerin' for
anybody to live with, anyhow. Lets on he was a great soldier! Humph!
I've known him--"

"Hush, father!"

It was Pen's mother who spoke. The old man turned toward her abruptly.

"You ain't got no call," he said, "to stick up for Dick Butler."

"I know," she replied. "But he's Pen's grandfather, and it isn't nice
to abuse him in Pen's presence."

"Well, mebbe that's so."

He rose from the table, got his pipe from the mantel, filled it and
lighted it, and went over and deposited his somewhat ponderous body in
a cushioned chair by the window. Pen's mother and aunt pushed the
wheel-chair in which Grandma Walker sat, to one side of the room, and
began to clear the dishes from the table.

"Well," said the old man, between his puffs of smoke, "now ye're here,
what ye goin' to do here?"

"Anything you have for me to do, grandpa," replied Pen.

"I don't see's I can send ye to school."

"I'd rather not go to school. I'd rather work--do chores, anything."

"All right! I guess we can keep ye from rustin'. They's plenty to do,
and I ain't so soople as I was at sixty."

He looked the embodiment of physical comfort, with his round, fresh
face, and the fringe of gray whiskers under his chin, as he sat at
ease in his big chair by the window, puffing lazily at his pipe.

So Pen stayed. There was no doubt but that he earned his keep. He did
chores. He chopped wood. He brought water from the well. He fed the
horse and the cows, the chickens and the pigs. He drove Old Charlie in
the performance of any work requiring the assistance of a horse. He
was busy from morning to night. He slept in a cold room, he was up
before daylight, he was out in all kinds of weather, he did all kinds
of tasks. There were sore muscles and aching bones, indeed, before he
had hardened himself to his work; for physical labor was new to him;
but he never shirked nor complained. Moreover he was treated kindly,
he had plenty to eat, and he shared in whatever diversions the family
could afford. Then, too, he had his mother to comfort him, to cheer
him, to sympathize with him, and to be, ever more and more, his
confidante and companion.

And Grandpa Walker, relieved of nearly all laborious activities about
the place, much to his enjoyment, spent his time reading, smoking and
dozing through the days of late winter and early spring, and
discussing politics and big business in the country store at the
cross-roads of an evening.

One afternoon, about the middle of March, as the old man was rousing
himself from his after-dinner nap, two men drove up to the Walker
homestead, tied their horse at the gate, came up the path to the house
and knocked at the door. He, himself, answered the knock.

"Yes," he said in response to their inquiry, "I'm Enos Walker, and I'm
to hum."

The spokesman of the two was a tall young man with a very black
moustache and a merry twinkle in his eyes.

"We're glad to see you, Mr. Walker," he declared. "My name is Hubert
Morrissey, and the gentleman who is with me is Mr. Frank Campbell.
We're on a hunting expedition."

"Perty late in the season fer huntin', ain't it? The law's on most
everything now."

"I don't think the law's on what we're hunting for."

"What ye huntin' fer?"

"Spruce trees."

"Eh?"

"Spruce trees. Or, rather, one spruce tree."

"Well, ye wouldn't have to shoot so allfired straight to hit one in
these parts. I've got a swamp full of 'em down here."

"So we understand. But we want a choice one."

"I've got some that can't be beat this side the White mountains."

"We've learned that also. We took the liberty of looking over your
spruce grove on our way up here."

"Well; they didn't nobody hender ye, did they?"

"No. We found what we were looking for, all right."

"Jes' so. Come in an' set down."

Grandpa Walker moved ponderously from the doorway in which he had been
standing, to his comfortable chair by the window, seated himself,
picked up his pipe from the window-sill, filled it, lighted it and
began puffing. The two men entered the room, closing the door behind
them, and found chairs for themselves and occupied them. Then the
conversation was renewed.

"We'll be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Walker," said Hubert
Morrissey, "and tell you what we want and why we want it. It is
proposed to erect a first-class liberty-pole in the school-yard at
Chestnut Hill. A handsome American flag has already been given to the
school. The next thing in order of course is the pole. Mr. Campbell
and I have been authorized to find a spruce tree that will fill the
bill, buy it, and have it cut and trimmed and hauled to town while the
snow is still on. It has to be dressed, seasoned, painted, and ready
to plant by the time the frost goes out, and there isn't a day to
lose. There, Mr. Walker, that is our errand."

"Jes' so. Found the tree did ye? down in my swamp?"

"We certainly did."

"Nice tree, is it? What ye was lookin' fer?"

"It's a beauty! Just what we want. I know it isn't just the thing to
crack up the goods you're trying to buy from the other fellow, but we
want to be perfectly fair with you, Mr. Walker. We want to pay you
what the tree is worth. Suppose we go down the hill and look it over,
and then you can doubtless give us your price on it."

"'Tain't ne'sary to go down an' look it over. I know the tree ye've
got your eye on."

"How do you know?"

"Oh, sort o' guessed it. It's the one by the corner o' the rail fence
on the fu'ther side o' the brook as ye go in from the road."

"That's a good guess. It's the very tree. Now then, what about the
price?"

The old man pulled on his pipe for a moment with rather more than his
usual vigor, then removed it from his mouth and faced his visitors.

"Want to buy that tree, do ye?" he asked.

"Sure we want to buy it."

"Cash down, jedgment note, or what?"

The man with the black moustache smiled broadly, showing an even row
of white teeth.

"Cash down," he replied. "Gold, silver or greenbacks as you prefer.
Every dollar in your hands before an axe touches the tree."

Grandpa Walker inserted the stem of his pipe between his teeth, and
again lapsed into a contemplative mood. After a moment he broke the
silence by asking:

"Got the flag, hev ye?"

"Yes; we have the flag."

"Might I be so bold as to ask what the flag cost?"

"It was given to the school."

"Air ye tellin' who give it?"

"Why, there's no secret about it. Colonel Butler gave the flag."

"Dick Butler?"

"Colonel Richard Butler; yes."

It was gradually filtering into the mind of Mr. Hubert Morrissey that
for some reason the owner of the tree was harboring a resentment
against the giver of the flag. Then he suddenly recalled the fact that
Mr. Walker was the father of Colonel Butler's daughter-in-law, and
that the relation between the two men had been somewhat strained. But
Grandpa Walker was now ready with another question:

"Is Colonel Richard Butler a givin' the pole too?"

"Why, yes, I believe he furnishes the pole also."

"It was him 't sent ye out here a lookin' fer one; was it?"

"He asked us to hunt one up for him, certainly."

"Told ye, when ye found one 't was right, to git it? Not to haggle
about the price, but git it an' pay fer it? Told ye that, didn't he?"

"Well, if it wasn't just that it was first cousin to it."

"Jes' so. Well, you go back to Chestnut Hill, an' you go to Colonel
Richard Butler, an' you tell Colonel Richard Butler that ef he wants
to buy a spruce tree from Enos Walker of Cobb's Corners, to come here
an' bargain fer it himself. He'll find me to hum most any day. How's
the sleighin'?"

"Pretty fair. But, Mr. Walker--"

"No buts, ner ifs, ner ands. Ye heard what I said, an' I stan' by it
till the crack o' jedgment."

The old man rose, knocked the ashes out of his pipe and put the pipe
in his vest pocket, stretched himself, and reached for his cap. It was
plain that he considered the interview at an end. The persuasive Mr.
Morrissey tried to get a wedge in somewhere to reopen it, but he tried
in vain. Enos Walker was adamant. So, disappointed and discomfited,
the emissaries of Colonel Richard Butler bade "good-day," to the
oracle of Cobb's Corners, and drove back to Chestnut Hill.




CHAPTER VII


On the morning after the interview with Enos Walker, Mr. Morrissey and
Mr. Campbell went up to Bannerhall to report to Colonel Richard
Butler. But they went hesitatingly. Indeed, it had been a question in
their minds whether it would not be wiser to say nothing to Colonel
Butler concerning their experience at Cobb's Corners, and simply to go
elsewhere and hunt up another tree. But Mr. Walker's tree was such a
model of perfection for their purpose, the possibility of finding
another one that would even approach it in suitability was so
extremely remote, that the two gentlemen, after serious discussion of
the question, being well aware of Colonel Butler's idiosyncrasies,
decided, finally, to put the whole case up to him, and to accept
cheerfully whatever he might have in store for them. There was one
chance in a hundred that the colonel, instead of scornfully resenting
Enos Walker's proposal, might take the matter philosophically and
accept the old man's terms. They thought it better to take that
chance.

They found Colonel Butler in his office adjoining the library. He was
in an ordinarily cheerful mood, although the deep shadows under his
eyes, noticeable only within the last few weeks, indicated that he had
been suffering either in mind or in body, perhaps in both.

"Well, gentlemen," he said when his visitors were seated; "what about
the arboreal errand? Did you find a tree?"

Mr. Hubert Morrissey, as he had been the day before, was again,
to-day, the spokesman for his committee of two.

"We found a tree," he replied.

"One in all respects satisfactory I hope?" the colonel inquired.

"Eminently satisfactory," was the answer. "In fact a perfect beauty. I
doubt if it has its equal in this section of the state. Wouldn't you
say so, Mr. Campbell?"

"I fully agree with you," replied Mr. Campbell. "It's without a peer."

"How will it measure?" inquired the colonel.

"I should say," responded Mr. Morrissey, "that it will dress up to
about twelve inches at the base, and will stand about fifty feet to
the ball on the summit. Shouldn't you say so, Mr. Campbell?"

"Just about," was the reply. "Not an inch under those figures, in my
judgment."

"Good!" exclaimed the colonel. "Permit me to congratulate you,
gentlemen. You have performed a distinct public service. You deserve
the thanks of the entire community."

"But, colonel," said Mr. Morrissey with some hesitation, "we were not
quite able to close a satisfactory bargain with the owner of the
tree."

"That is unfortunate, gentlemen. You should not have permitted a few
dollars to stand in the way of securing your prize. I thought I gave
you a perfectly free hand to do as you thought best."

"So you did, colonel. But the hitch was not so much over a matter of
price as over a matter of principle."

"Over a matter of principle? I don't understand you, sir. How could
any citizen of this free country object, as a matter of principle, to
having his tree converted into a staff from the summit of which the
emblem of liberty might be flung to the breeze? Especially when he was
free to name his own price for the tree."

"But he wouldn't name any price."

"Did he refuse to sell?"

"Not exactly; but he wouldn't bargain except on a condition that we
were unable to meet."

"What condition? Who is the man? Where does he live?"

Colonel Butler was growing plainly impatient over the obstructive
tactics in which the owner of the tree had indulged.

"He lives," replied Mr. Morrissey, "at Cobb's Corners. His name is
Enos Walker. His condition is that you go to him in person to bargain
for the tree. There's the situation, colonel. Now you have it all."

The veteran of the Civil War straightened up in his chair, threw back
his shoulders, and gazed at his visitors in silence. Surprise, anger,
contempt; these were the emotions the shadows of which successively
overspread his face.

"Gentlemen," he said, at last, "are you aware what a preposterous
proposition you have brought to me?"

"It is not our proposition, colonel."

"I know it is not, sir. You are simply the bearers of it. Permit me to
ask you, however, if it is your recommendation that I yield to the
demand of this crude highwayman of Cobb's Corners?"

"Why, Mr. Campbell and I have talked the matter over, and, in view of
the fact that this appears to be the only available tree within easy
reach, and is so splendidly adapted to our purposes, we have thought
that possibly you might suggest some method whereby--"

"Gentlemen--" Colonel Butler had risen from his chair and was pacing
angrily up and down the room. His face was flushed and his fingers
were working nervously. "Gentlemen--" he interrupted--"my fortune is
at your disposal. Purchase the tree where you will; on the hills of
Maine, in the swamps of Georgia, on the plains of California. But do
not suggest to me, gentlemen; do not dare to suggest to me that I
yield to the outrageous demand of this person who has made you the
bearers of his impertinent ultimatum."

Mr. Morrissey rose in his turn, followed by Mr. Campbell.

"Very well, colonel," said the spokesman. "We will try to procure the
tree elsewhere. We thought it no more than right to report to you
first what we had done. That is the situation is it not, Mr.
Campbell?"

"That is the situation, exactly," assented Mr. Campbell.

The colonel had reached the window in his round of the room, and had
stopped there.

"That was quite the thing to do, gentlemen," he replied.
"A--quite--the thing--to do."

He stood gazing intently out through the window at the banks of snow
settling and wasting under the bright March sunshine. Not that his
eyes had been attracted to anything in particular on his lawn, but
that a thought had entered his mind which demanded, for the moment,
his undivided attention.

His two visitors stood waiting, somewhat awkwardly, for him to turn
again toward them, but he did not do so. At last Mr. Morrissey plucked
up courage to break in on his host's reverie.

"I--I think we understand you now, colonel," he said. "We'll go
elsewhere and do the best we can."

Colonel Butler faced away from the window and came back into the room.

"Pardon me, gentlemen," he said. "My mind was temporarily occupied by
a thought that has come to me in this matter. Upon further
consideration it occurs to me that it may be expedient for me to yield
on this occasion to Mr. Walker's request, and visit him in person. In
the meantime you may suspend operations. I will advise you later of
the outcome of my plans."

"You are undoubtedly wise, colonel," replied Mr. Morrissey, "to make a
further effort to secure this particular tree. Wouldn't you say so,
Mr. Campbell?"

"Undoubtedly!" replied Mr. Campbell with some warmth.

So the matter was left in that way. Colonel Butler was to inform his
agents what, if anything, he had been able to accomplish by means of a
personal interview with Mr. Walker, always assuming that he should
finally and definitely decide to seek such an interview. And Mr.
Hubert Morrissey and Mr. Frank Campbell bowed themselves out of
Colonel Butler's presence.

While the cause of this sudden change of attitude on Colonel Butler's
part remained a mystery to his two visitors, it was, in reality, not
far to seek. For, as he looked out at his window that March morning,
he saw, not the bare trees on the lawn, not the brown hedge or the
beaten roadway; he saw, out somewhere among the snow-covered fields,
laboring as a farmer's boy, enduring the privations of a humble home,
and the limitations of a narrow environment, the lad who for a dozen
years had been his solace and his pride, the light and the life of
Bannerhall. How sadly he missed the boy, no one, save perhaps his
faithful daughter, had any conception. And she knew it, not because of
any word of complaint that had escaped his lips, but because every
look and mood and motion told her the story. He would not send for
his grandson; he would not ask him to come back; he would not force
him to come. It was a piece of childish folly on the boy's part no
doubt, this going away; due to his impetuous nature and his immature
years; but, he had made his bed, now let him lie in it till he should
come to a realization of what he had done, and, like the prodigal son
of old, should come back of his own accord, and ask to be forgiven.
Yet the days went by, and the weeks grew long, and no prodigal
returned. There was no abatement of determination on the grandfather's
part, but the idea grew slowly in his mind that if by some chance, far
removed from even the suspicion of design, they should encounter each
other, he and the boy, face to face, in the village street, on the
open road, in field or farm-house, something might be said or done
that would lead to the longed-for reconciliation. It was the practical
application of this thought that led to his change of attitude that
morning in the presence of his visitors. He would have a legitimate
errand to the home of Enos Walker. The incidental opportunities that
might lie in the path of such an errand properly fulfilled, were not
to be lightly ignored nor peremptorily dismissed. At any rate the
matter was worth careful consideration. He considered it, and made his
decision.

That afternoon, after his daughter Millicent had gone down into the
village in entire ignorance of any purpose that he might have had to
leave the house, he ordered his horse and cutter for a drive. Later he
changed the order, and directed that his team and two-seated sleigh be
brought to the door. It had occurred to him that there was a bare
possibility that he might have a passenger on his return trip. Then he
arrayed himself in knee-high rubber boots, a heavy overcoat, and a fur
cap. At three o'clock he entered his sleigh and directed his driver to
proceed with all reasonable haste to Cobb's Corners.

Out in the country where the winds of winter had piled the snow into
long heaps, the beaten track was getting soft, and it was necessary to
exercise some care in order to prevent the horses from slumping
through the drifts to the road-bed. And on the westerly slope of
Baldwin's Hill the ground in the middle of the road was bare for at
least forty rods. But, from that point on, whether his progress was
fast or slow, Colonel Butler scrutinized the way ahead of him, and the
farm-houses that he passed, with painstaking care. He was not looking
for any spruce tree here, no matter how straight and tall. But if
haply some farmer's boy should be out on an errand for the master of
the farm, it would be inexcusable to pass him negligently by; that was
all. And yet his vigilance met with no reward. He had not caught the
remotest glimpse of such a boy when his sleigh drew up at Enos
Walker's gate.

The unusual jingling of bells brought Sarah Butler and her sister to
the window of the sitting-room to see who it was that was bringing
such a flood of tinkling music up the road.

"For the land sakes!" exclaimed the sister; "it's Richard Butler, and
he's stopping here. I bet a cookie he's come after Pen."

But Pen's mother did not respond. Her heart was beating too fast, she
could not speak.

"You've got to go to the door, Sarah," continued the sister; "I'm not
dressed."

Colonel Butler was already on his way up the path, and, a moment
later, his knock was heard at the door. It was opened by Sarah Butler
who stood there facing him with outward calmness. Evidently the
colonel had not anticipated seeing her, and, for the moment, he was
apparently disconcerted. But he recovered himself at once and inquired
courteously if Mr. Walker was at home. It was the third time in his
life that he had spoken to his daughter-in-law. The first time was
when she returned from her bridal trip, and the interview on that
occasion had been brief and decisive. The second time was when her
husband was lying dead in the modest home to which he had taken her.
Now he had spoken to her again, and this time there was no bitterness
in his tone nor iciness in his manner.

"Yes," she replied; "father is somewhere about. If you will please
come in and be seated I will try to find him."

He followed her into the sitting-room, and took the chair that she
placed for him.

"I beg that you will not put yourself to too much trouble," he said,
"in trying to find him; although I desire to see him on a somewhat
important errand."

"It will not be the slightest trouble," she assured him.

But, as she turned to go, he added as though a new thought had come to
him:

"Perhaps you have some young person about the premises whom you could
send out in search of Mr. Walker, and thus save yourself the effort of
finding him."

"No," she replied. "There is no young person here. I will go myself.
It will take but a minute or two."

It was a feeble attempt on his part, and it had been quickly foiled.
So there was nothing for him to do but to sit quietly in the chair
that had been placed for him, and await the coming of Enos Walker.

Yet he could not help but wonder as he sat there, what had become of
Pen. She had said that there was no young person there. Was the boy's
absence only temporary, or had he left the home of his maternal
grandfather and gone to some place still more remote and
inaccessible? He was consumed with a desire to know; but he would not
have made the inquiry, save as a matter of life and death.

It was fully five minutes later that the guest in the sitting-room
heard some one stamping the snow off his boots in the kitchen
adjoining, then the door of the room was opened, and Enos Walker stood
on the threshold. His trousers were tucked into the tops of his boots,
his heavy reefer jacket was tightly buttoned, and his cloth cap was
still on his head.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Butler," he said. "I'm pleased to see ye. I
didn't know as ye'd think it wuth while to come."

"It is always worth while," replied the colonel, "to meet a business
proposition frankly and fairly. I am here, at your suggestion, to
discuss with you the matter of the purchase of a certain tree."

Grandpa Walker advanced into the room, closing the door behind him,
went over to the window, laid aside his cap, and dropped into his
accustomed chair.

"Jes' so," he said. "Set down, an' we'll talk it over." When the
colonel was seated he continued: "They tell me ye want to buy a
spruce tree. Is that right?"

"That is correct."

"Want it fer a flag-pole, eh?"

"Yes. It is proposed to erect a staff on the school grounds at
Chestnut Hill."

"Jes' so. In that case ye want a perty good one. Tall, straight,
slender, small-limbed; proper in every way."

"Exactly."

"Well, I've got it."

"So I have heard. I have come to bargain for it."

"All right! Want to look at it fust, I s'pose."

"I have come prepared to inspect it."

"That's business. I'll go down to the swamp with ye an' we'll look her
over."

Grandpa Walker rose from his chair and replaced his cap on his head.

"Is the tree located at some distance from the house?" inquired the
colonel.

"Oh, mebbe a quarter of a mile; mebbe not so fer."

"A--have you some young person about, whom you could send with me to
inspect it, and thus save yourself the trouble of tramping through the
snow?"

Grandpa Walker looked at his visitor curiously before replying.

"No," he said, after a moment, "I ain't. I've got a young feller
stoppin' with me; but he started up to Henry Cobb's about two o'clock.
How fer beyond Henry's he's got by this time I can't say. I ain't so
soople as I was once, that's a fact. But when it comes to trampin'
through the woods, snow er no snow, I reckon I can hold up my end with
anybody that wears boots. Ef ye're ready, come along!"

A look of disappointment came into the colonel's face. He did not
move. After a moment he said:

"On second thought, I believe I will not take the time nor the trouble
to inspect the tree."

"Don't want it, eh?"

"Yes, I want it. I'll take it on your recommendation and that of my
agents, Messrs. Morrissey and Campbell. If you'll name your price I'll
pay you for it."

Grandpa Walker went back and sat down in his cushioned chair by the
window. He laid his cap aside, picked up his pipe from the
window-sill, lighted it, and began to smoke.

"Well," he said, at last, "that's a prime tree. That tree's wuth
money."

"Undoubtedly, sir; undoubtedly; but how much money?"

The old man puffed for a moment in silence. Then he asked:

"Want it fer a liberty-pole, do ye?"

"I want it for a liberty-pole."

"To put the school flag on?"

"To put the school flag on."

There was another moment of silence.

"They say," remarked the old man, inquiringly, "that you gave the
flag?"

"I gave the flag."

"Then, by cracky! I'll give the pole."

Enos Walker rose vigorously to his feet in order properly to emphasize
his offer. Colonel Butler did not respond. This sudden turn of affairs
had almost taken away his breath. Then a grim smile stole slowly into
his face. The humor of the situation began to appeal to him.

"Permit me to commend you," he said, "for your liberality and
patriotism."

"I didn't fight in no Civil War," added the old man, emphatically;
"but I ain't goin' to hev it said by nobody that Enos Walker ever
profited a penny on a pole fer his country's flag."

The old soldier's smile broadened.

"Good!" he exclaimed. "That's very good. We'll stand together as joint
donors of the emblem of freedom."

"And I ain't ashamed of it nuther," cried the new partner, "an' here's
my hand on it."

The two men shook hands, and this time Colonel Richard Butler laughed
outright.

"This is fine," he said. "I'll send men to-morrow to cut the tree
down, trim it, and haul it to town. There's no time to lose. The roads
are getting soft. Why, half of Baldwin's Hill is already bare."

He started toward the door, but his host called him back.

"Don't be in a hurry," said Grandpa Walker. "Set down a while, can't
ye? Have a piece o' pie or suthin. Or a glass o' cider."

"Thank you! Nothing at all. I'm in some haste. It's getting late.
And--I desire to make a brief call on Henry Cobb before returning
home."

The old man made no further effort to detain his visitor; but he gave
him a cordial invitation to come again, shook hands with him at the
door, and watched him half way down to the gate. When he turned and
re-entered his house he found his two daughters already in the
sitting-room.

"Did he come for Pen?" asked Sarah Butler, breathlessly.

"Ef he did," replied her father, "he didn't say so. He wanted my
spruce tree, and I give it to him. And I want to tell ye one thing
fu'ther. I've got a sort o' sneakin' notion that Colonel Richard
Butler of Chestnut Hill ain't more'n about one-quarter's bad as he's
be'n painted."

Henry Cobb's residence was scarcely a half mile beyond the home of
Enos Walker. It was the most imposing farm-house in that
neighborhood, splendidly situated on high ground, with a rare outlook
to the south and east. Mr. Cobb himself was just emerging from the
open door of a great barn that fronted the road as Colonel Butler
drove up. He came out to the sleigh and greeted the occupant of it
cordially. The two men were old friends.

"It's a magnificent view you have here," said the colonel;
"magnificent!"

"Yes," was the reply, "we rather enjoy it. I've lived in this
neighborhood all my life, and the longer I live here the better I like
it."

"That's the proper spirit, sir, the proper spirit."

For a moment both men looked off across the snow-mantled valleys and
the wooded slopes, to the summit of the hill-range far to the east,
touched with the soft light of the sinking sun.

"You're quite a stranger in these parts," said Henry Cobb, breaking
the silence.

"Yes," was the reply. "I don't often get up here. I came up to-day to
make an arrangement with your neighbor, Mr. Walker, for the purchase
of a very fine spruce tree on his property."

"So? Did you succeed in closing a bargain with him?"

"Yes. He has consented to let it go."

"You don't say so! I would hardly have believed it. Now, I don't want
to be curious nor anything; but would you mind telling me what you had
to pay for it?"

"Nothing. He gave it to us."

"He--what?"

"He gave it to us to be used as a flag-staff on the grounds of the
public school at Chestnut Hill."

"You don't mean that he gave you that wonderful spruce that stands
down in the corner of his swamp; the one Morrissey and Campbell were
up looking at yesterday?"

"I believe that is the one."

"Why, colonel, that spruce was the apple of his eye. If I've heard him
brag that tree up once, I've heard him brag it up fifty times. He
never gave away anything in his life before. What's come over the old
man, anyway?"

"Well, when he learned that I had donated the flag, he declared that
he would donate the staff. I suppose he didn't want to be outdone in
the matter of patriotism."

"Good for him!" exclaimed Henry Cobb. "He'll be a credit to his
country yet;" and he laughed merrily. Then, sobering down, he added:
"But, say; look here! can't you let me in on this thing too? I don't
want to be outdone by either of you. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll
cut the tree, and trim it, and haul it to town to-morrow, free gratis
for nothing. What do you say?"

Then the colonel laughed in his turn, and he reached out his one hand
and shook hands warmly with Henry Cobb.

"Splendid!" he cried. "This efflorescence of patriotism in the rural
districts is enough to delight an old soldier's heart!"

"All right! I'll have the pole there by four o'clock to-morrow
afternoon, and you can depend on it."

"I will. And I thank you, sir; not only on my own account, but also in
the name of the public of Chestnut Hill, and on behalf of our beloved
country. Now I must go. I have decided, in returning, to drive across
by Darbytown, strike the creek road, and go down home by that route
in order to avoid drifts and bare places. Oh, by the way, there's a
little matter I neglected to speak to Mr. Walker about. It's of no
great moment, but I understand his grandson came up here this
afternoon, and, if he is still here, I will take the opportunity to
send back word by him."

He made the inquiry with as great an air of indifference as he could
assume, but his breath came quick as he waited for an answer.

"Why," replied Henry Cobb, "Pen was here along about three o'clock. He
was looking for a two-year old heifer that strayed away yesterday. He
went over toward Darbytown. You might run across him if you're going
that way. But I'll send your message down to Enos Walker if you wish."

"Thank you! It doesn't matter. I may possibly see the young man along
the road. Good night!"

"Good night, colonel!"

The impatient horses were given rein once more, and dashed away to the
music of the two score bells that hung from their shining harness.

But, although Colonel Richard Butler scanned every inch of the way
from Henry Cobb's to Darbytown, with anxious and longing eyes, he did
not once catch sight of any farmer's boy searching for a two-year old
heifer that had strayed from its home.

At dusk he stepped wearily from his sleigh and mounted the steps that
led to the porch of Bannerhall. His daughter met him at the door.

"For goodness' sake, father!" she exclaimed; "where on earth have you
been?"

"I have been to Cobb's Corners," was the quiet reply.

"Did you get Pen?" she asked, excitedly.

"I did not."

"Wouldn't Mr. Walker let him come?"

"I made no request of any one for my grandson's return. I went to
obtain a spruce tree from Mr. Walker, out of which to make a
flag-staff for the school grounds. I obtained it."

"That's a wonder."

"It is not a wonder, Millicent. Permit me to say, as one speaking from
experience, that when accused of selfishness, Enos Walker has been
grossly maligned. I have found him to be a public-spirited citizen,
and a much better man, in all respects, than he has been painted."

His daughter made no further inquiries, for she saw that he was not in
a mood to be questioned. But, from that day forth, the shadow of
sorrow and of longing grew deeper on his care-furrowed face.




CHAPTER VIII


It was well along in April, that year, before the last of the winter's
snow disappeared, and the robins and blue-birds darted in and out
among the naked trees. But, as the sun grew high, and the days long,
and the spring languor filled the air, Pen felt an ever-increasing
dissatisfaction with his position in his grandfather Walker's
household, and an ever-increasing desire to relinquish it. Not that he
was afraid or ashamed to work; he had sufficiently demonstrated that
he was not. Not that he ever expected to return to Bannerhall, for he
had no such thought. To beg to be taken back was unthinkable; that he
should be invited back was most improbable. He had not seen his
grandfather Butler since he came away, nor had he heard from him,
except for the vivid and oft-repeated recital by Grandpa Walker of the
spruce tree episode, and save through his Aunt Millicent who made
occasional visits to the family at Cobb's Corners. That he deplored
Pen's departure there could be no doubt, but that he would either
invite or compel him to return was beyond belief. So Pen's tasks had
come to be very irksome to him, and his mode of life very
dissatisfying. If he worked he wanted to work for himself, at a task
in which he could take interest and pride. At Cobb's Corners he could
see no future for himself worthy of the name. Many times he discussed
the situation with his mother, and, painful as it would be to her to
lose him, she agreed with him that he must go. He waited only the
opportunity.

One day, late in April, Robert Starbird dropped in while the members
of the Walker family were at dinner. He was a wool-buyer for the
Starbird Woolen Company of Lowbridge, and a nephew of its president.
Having completed a bargain with Grandpa Walker for his scanty spring
clipping of fleece, he turned to Pen.

"Haven't I seen you at Colonel Butler's, down at Chestnut Hill?" he
inquired.

"Yes," replied Pen, "I'm his grandson. I used to live there."

"I thought so. Staying here now, are you?"

"Until I can get regular work; yes, sir."

"Want a job, do you?"

"I'd like one, very much."

"Well, we'll need a bobbin-boy at the mills pretty soon. I suppose--"

And then Grandpa Walker interrupted.

"I guess," he said, "'t we can keep the young man busy here for a
while yet."

Robert Starbird looked curiously for a moment, from man to boy, and
then, saying that he must go on up to Henry Cobb's to make a deal with
him for his fleece, he went out to his buggy, got in and drove away.

Pen went back to his work in the field with a sinking heart. It had
not before occurred to him that Grandpa Walker would object to his
leaving him whenever he should find satisfactory and profitable
employment elsewhere. But it was now evident that, if he went, he must
go against his grandfather's will. His first opportunity had already
been blocked. What opposition he would meet with in the future he
could only conjecture.

With Old Charlie hitched to a stone-boat, he was drawing stones from
a neighbor's field to the roadside, where men were engaged in laying
up a stone wall. He had not been long at work since the dinner hour,
when, chancing to look up, he saw Robert Starbird driving down the
hill from Henry Cobb's on his way back to Chestnut Hill. A sudden
impulse seized him. He threw the reins across Old Charlie's back, left
him standing willingly in his tracks, and started on a run across the
lot to head off Robert Starbird at the roadside. The man saw him
coming and stopped his horse.

Panting a little, both from exertion and excitement, Pen leaped the
fence and came up to the side of the buggy.

"Mr. Starbird," he said, "if that job is still open, I--I think I'll
take it--if you'll give it to me."

The man, looking at him closely, saw determination stamped on his
countenance.

"Why, that's all right," he said. "You could have the job; but what
about your grandfather Walker? He doesn't seem to want you to leave."

"I know. But my mother's willing. And I'll make it up to Grandpa
Walker some way. I can't stay here, Mr. Starbird; and--I'm not going
to. They're good enough to me here. I've no complaint to make. But--I
want a real job and a fair chance."

He paused, out of breath. The intensity of his desire, and the
fixedness of his purpose were so sharply manifest that the man in the
wagon did not, for the moment, reply. He placed his whip slowly in its
socket, and seemed lost in thought. At last he said:

"Henry Cobb has been telling me about you. He gives you a very good
name."

He paused a moment and then added:

"I'll tell you what I'll do. If you'll give the old gentleman fair
notice--and not sneak away from him like a vagabond--I won't harbor
any runaways--why, I'll see that you get the job."

Pen drew a long breath, and his face lighted up with pleasure.

"Thank you, Mr. Starbird!" he exclaimed. "Thank you very much. When
may I come?"

"Well, let's see. To-day's Wednesday. Suppose you report for duty next
Monday."

"All right! I'll be there. I'll leave here Monday morning. I'll speak
to Grandpa Walker to-night."

"Very well. See you Monday. Good-by!"

"Good-by!"

Robert Starbird chirruped to his horse, started on, and was soon lost
to sight around a bend in the road.

And Pen strode back across the field, prouder and happier than he had
ever been before in all his life.

But he still had Grandpa Walker to settle with.

At supper time, on the evening after his talk with Robert Starbird,
Pen had no opportunity to inform his grandfather of the success of his
application for employment. For, almost as soon as he left the table,
Grandpa Walker got his hat and started down to the store to discuss
politics and statecraft with his loquacious neighbors. But Pen felt
that his grandfather should know, that night, of the arrangement he
had made for employment, and so, after his evening chores were done,
he went down to the gate at the roadside to wait for the old man to
come home.

The air was as balmy as though it had been an evening in June.
Somewhere in the trees by the fence a pair of wakeful birds was
chirping. From the swamp below the hill came the hoarse croaking of
bull-frogs. Above the summit of the wooded slope that lay toward
Chestnut Hill the full moon was climbing, and, aslant the road, the
maples cast long shadows toward the west.

To Pen, as he stood there waiting, came his mother. A wrap was around
her shoulders, and a light scarf partly covered her head. She had
finished her evening work and had come out to find him.

"Are you waiting for grandpa?" she asked; though she knew without
asking, that he was.

"Yes," was the reply. "I want to see him about leaving. I had a talk
with Mr. Starbird this afternoon, in the road, and he's given me the
job he spoke about. I wasn't going to tell you until after I'd seen
grandpa, and the trouble was all over."

"You dear boy! And if grandpa objects to your going?"

"Well, I--I think I'll go anyway. Look here, mother," he continued,
hastily; "I don't want to be mean nor anything like that; and
grandpa's been kind to me; but, mother--I can't stay here. Don't you
see I can't stay here?"

He held his arms out to her appealingly, and she took them and put
them about her neck.

"I know, dear," she said; "I know. And grandfather must let you go. I
shall die of loneliness, but--you must have a chance."

"Thank you, mother! And as soon as I can earn enough you shall come to
live with me."

"I shall come anyway before very long, dearie. I worked for other
people before I was married. I can do it again."

She laughed a little, but on her cheeks tears glistened in the
moonlight.

Then, suddenly, they were aware that Grandpa Walker was approaching
them. He was coming up the road, talking to himself as was his custom
when alone, especially if his mind was ill at ease. And his mind was
not wholly at ease to-night. The readiness with which Pen had, that
day, accepted a suggestion of employment elsewhere, had given him
something of a turn. He could not contemplate, with serenity, the
prospect of resuming the burdens of which his grandson had, for the
last two months, relieved him. To become again a "hewer of wood and
drawer of water" for his family was a prospect not wholly to his
liking. He became suddenly aware that two people were standing at his
gate in the moonlight. He stopped in the middle of the road, to look
at them inquiringly.

"It's I, father!" his daughter called out to him. "Pen and I. We've
been waiting for you."

"Eh? Waitin' for me?" he asked.

"Yes, Pen has something he wants to say to you."

The old man crossed over to the roadside fence and leaned on it. The
announcement was ominous. He looked sharply at Pen.

"Well," he said. "I'm listenin'."

"Grandpa," began Pen, "I want you to be willing that I should take
that job that Mr. Starbird spoke about to-day."

"So, that's it, is it? Ye've got the rovin' bee a buzzin' in your
head, have ye? Don't ye know 't 'a rollin' stone gethers no moss'?"

"Well, grandpa, I'm not contented here. Not but what you're good
enough to me, and all that, but I'm unhappy here. And I saw Mr.
Starbird again this afternoon, and he said I could have that job."

"Think a job in a mill's better'n a job on a farm?"

"I think it is for me, grandpa."

"Work too hard for ye here?"

"Why, I'm not complaining about the work being hard. It's just because
farm work does not suit me."

"Don't suit most folks 'at ain't inclined to dig into it."

Then Pen's mother spoke up.

"Now, father," she said, "you know Pen's done a man's work since he's
been here, and he's never whimpered about it. And it isn't quite fair
for you to insinuate that he's been lazy."

"I ain't insinuatin' nothin'," replied the old man, doggedly. "I ain't
findin' no fault with what he's done sence he's been here; I'm just
gittin' at what he thinks he's goin' to do." He turned again to Pen.
"Made up yer mind to go, hev ye?"

"Yes, grandpa."

"When?"

"Next Monday morning."

"Wuther I'm willin' or no?"

"I want you to be willing."

"I say, wuther I'm willin' or no?"

In the moonlight the old man's face bore a look of severity that
augured ill for any happy completion to Pen's plan. A direct question
had been asked, and it called for a direct answer. And with the answer
would come the clash of wills. Pen felt it coming, and, although he
was apprehensive to the verge of alarm, he braced himself to meet it
calmly. His answer was frank, and direct.

"Yes, grandpa."

"Well, I'm willin'."

"Why, grandpa!"

"Father! you old dear!" from Pen's mother.

"I say I'm willin'," repeated the old man. "I hed hoped 't Pen'd stay
here to hum an' help me out with the farm work. I ain't so soople as I
use to be. An' Mirandy's man's got a stiddy job a-teamin'. An' the boy
seemed to take to the work natural, and I thought he liked it, and I
rested easy and took my comfort till Robert Starbird put that notion
in his head to-day. Sence then I ain't had no hope."

"I'm sorry to leave you, grandpa, and it's awfully good of you to let
me go, and you know I wouldn't go if I thought I could possibly stay
and be contented."

"I understand. It's the same with most young fellers. They see suthin'
better away from hum. And I ain't willin' to stand in the way o' no
young feller that thinks he can better himself some'eres else. When I
was fifteen I wanted to go down to Chestnut Hill and work in Sampson's
planin' factory; but my father wouldn't let me. Consekence is I never
got spunk enough agin to leave the farm. So I ain't goin' to stand in
nobody else's way, you can go Monday mornin' or any other mornin', and
I'll just say God bless ye, an' good luck to ye, an' start in agin on
the chores."

Then Pen's mother, like a girl still in her sympathies and impulses,
flung her arms around her father's neck, and hugged him till he was
positively obliged to use force to release himself. And they all
walked up the path together in the moonlight, and entered the house
and told Grandma Walker and Aunt Miranda of Pen's contemplated
departure, to which Grandpa Walker, with martyrlike countenance, added
the story of his own unhappy prospect.

When Monday morning came Pen was up long before his usual hour for
rising. He did all the chores, picked up a dozen odds and ends, and
left everything ship-shape for his grandfather who was now to succeed
him in doing the morning work. Then he changed his clothes, packed his
suit-case and came down to breakfast. Grandpa Walker had offered to
take him into town with Old Charlie, but Pen had learned, the night
before, that Henry Cobb was going down to Chestnut Hill in the
morning, and when Mr. Cobb heard that Pen also was going, he gave him
an invitation to ride with him. He and the boy had become fast
friends during Pen's sojourn at Cobb's Corners, and both of them
anticipated, with pleasure, the ride into town.

After breakfast Grandpa Walker lighted his pipe and put on his hat but
he did not go to the store, as had been his custom; he stayed to say
good-by to Pen, and to bid him Godspeed, as he had said he would, and
to tell him that when he lacked for work, or wanted a home, there was
a latch-string at Cobb's Corners that was always hanging out for him.
He did more than that. He shoved into Pen's hands enough money to pay
for a few weeks' board at Lowbridge, and told him that if he needed
more, to write and ask for it.

"It's comin' to ye," he said, when Pen protested. "Ye ain't had
nothin' sence ye been here, and I kind o' calculate ye've earned it."

Pen's mother went with him to the gate to wait for Henry Cobb to come
along; and when they saw Mr. Cobb driving down the hill toward them,
she kissed Pen good-by, adjured him to be watchful of his health, and
to write frequently to her, and then went back up the path toward the
house she could not see for the tears that filled her eyes.

Henry Cobb drove a smart horse, and a buggy that was spick and span,
and it was a pleasure to ride with him. He pulled up at the gate with
a flourish, and told Pen to put his suit-case under the seat, and to
jump in.

It was not until after they had left the Corners some distance behind
them that the object of Pen's journey was mentioned. Then Henry Cobb
asked:

"How does the old gentleman like your leaving?"

"I don't think he likes it very well," was the reply. "But he's been
lovely about it. He gave me some money and his blessing."

"You don't say so!"

Henry Cobb stared at the boy in astonishment. It was not an unheard of
thing for Grandpa Walker to give his blessing; but that he should give
money besides, was, to say the least, unusual.

"Yes," replied Pen, "he couldn't have treated me better if I'd lived
with him always."

Mr. Cobb cast a contemplative eye on the landscape, and, for a full
minute, he was silent. Then he turned again to Pen.

"I don't want to be curious or anything," he said; "but would you mind
telling me how much money the old gentleman gave you?"

"Not at all," was the prompt reply. "He gave me eighteen dollars."

"Good for him!" exclaimed the man. "He's got more good stuff in him
than I gave him credit for. I was afraid he might have given you only
a dollar or two, and I was going to lend you a little to help you out.
I will yet if you need it. I will any time you need it."

Henry Cobb was not prodigal with his money, but he was kind-hearted,
and he had seen enough of Pen to feel that he was taking no risk.

"You're very kind," replied the boy, "but grandpa's money will last me
a good while, and I shall get wages enough to keep me comfortably, and
I shall not need any more."

After a while Mr. Cobb's thoughts turned again to Grandpa Walker.

"He'll miss you terribly," he said to Pen. "He hasn't had so easy a
time in all his life before as he's had this spring, with you to do
all the farm chores and help around the house. It'll be like pulling
teeth for him to get into harness again."

Henry Cobb gave a little chuckle. He knew how fond Grandpa Walker was
of comfortable ease.

"Well," replied Pen, "I'm sorry to go, and leave him with all the work
to do; but you know how it is, Mr. Cobb."

"Yes, I know; I know. And you're going with splendid people. I've
known the Starbirds all my life. None better in the country."

They had reached the summit of the elevation overlooking the valley
that holds Chestnut Hill. Spring lay all about them in a riot of fresh
green. The world, to boyish eyes, had never before looked so fair, nor
had the present ever before been filled with brighter promises for the
future. But the morning ride, delightful as it had been, was drawing
to an end.

Coming from Cobb's Corners into Chestnut Hill you go down the Main
street past Bannerhall. Pen looked as he went by, but he saw no one
there. The lawn was rich with a carpet of fresh, young grass, the
crocus beds and the tulip plot were ablaze with color, and the
swelling buds that crowned the maples with a haze and halo of elusive
pink foretold the luxury of summer foliage. But no human being was in
sight. The street looked strange to Pen as they drove along; as
strange as though he had been away two years instead of two months.
They stopped in front of the post-office, and he remained in the wagon
and minded the horse while Henry Cobb went into a hardware store near
by. People passed back and forth, and some of them looked at him and
said "good-morning," in a distant way, as though it were an effort for
them to speak to him. He knew the cause of their indifference and he
did not resent it, though it cut him deeply. Last winter it would have
been different. But last winter he was the grandson of Colonel Richard
Butler, and lived with that old patriot amid the memories and luxuries
of Bannerhall. To-day he was the grandson of Enos Walker, of Cobb's
Corners, leaving the farm to seek a petty job in a mill, discredited
in the eyes of the community because of his disloyalty to his
country's flag. He was musing on these things when some one called to
him from the sidewalk. It was Aunt Millicent.

"Pen Butler!" she cried, "get right down here and kiss me."

Pen did her bidding.

"What in the world are you doing here?" she continued.

"I'm on my way to Lowbridge," he said. "I have a job up there in the
Starbird woolen mills, as bobbin-boy."

"Well, for goodness sake! Who would have thought it? Pen Butler going
to work as a bobbin-boy! And Lowbridge is fourteen miles away, and we
shall never see you again."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I--suppose I am. Yes, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I would welcome the chance, sir."

Major Starbird turned to his nephew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER IX


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Something of that kind, I believe."

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

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

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

Pen again interrupted him.

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

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

But Pen would not listen to it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I didn't enlist, mother."

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

"They wouldn't take me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He paused and looked away from her.

"Going to what, Pen?"

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

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




CHAPTER X


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

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

She looked up in surprise and alarm.

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

"I'm going to war."

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

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

She looked up into his face.

"To war, Pen? What war?"

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

"Yes, I remember."

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

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

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

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

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

"And you'll be so far away."

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

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

He drew a newspaper from his pocket and read:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Colonel Butler turned an unrecognizing glance on the boy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did--did you come alone?"

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

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

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

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

"Yes, grandfather."

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

"Yes, grandfather; I agree with you."

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

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

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

"Thank you, sir!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am going to Canada to enlist."

"To--to what? Enlist?"

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

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

"And you--you are going to war?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was the colonel who at last broke the silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, I will."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XI


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What you've done against the flag?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XII


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

"You know what day this is, comrade?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Aleck?"

"Yes, comrade."

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

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

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

"And what is that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I will, Pen."

"And, Aleck?"

"Yes, comrade."

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

"With all my heart!"

"So, then, good-by!"

"Good-by!"

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

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

At the end of August, orders came for the battalion to return to the
front. There were two days of bustling preparation, and then the
troops entrained and were carried back to where the noise of the
seventy-fives on the one side and the seventy-sevens on the other,
came rumbling and thundering again to their ears, and the pall of
smoke along the horizon marked the location of the firing line.

But their destination this time was farther to the south, on the
British right wing, where French and English soldiers touched elbows
with each other, and Canadian and Australian fraternized in a common
enterprise. Here again the old trench life was resumed; sentinel duty,
daring adventures, wild charges, the shock and din of constant battle,
brief periods of rest and recuperation. But the process of attrition
was going on, the enemy was being pushed back, inch by inch it seemed,
but always, eventually, back. As for Pen, he led a charmed life. Men
fell to right of him and to left of him, and were torn into shreds at
his back; but, save for superficial wounds, for temporary
strangulation from gas, for momentary insensibility from shock, he was
unharmed.

It was in October, after Lieutenant Davis had been promoted to the
captaincy, that Pen was made second lieutenant of his company. He well
deserved the honor. There was a little celebration of the event among
his men, for his comrades all loved him and honored him. They said it
would not be long before he would be wearing the Victoria Cross on his
breast. Yet few of them had been with him from the beginning. Of those
who had landed with him upon French soil the preceding May only a
pitifully small percentage remained. Killed, wounded, missing, one by
one and in groups, they had dropped out, and the depleted ranks had
been filled with new blood.

In November they were sent up into the Arras sector, but in December
they were back again in their old quarters on the Somme. And yet it
was not their old quarters, for the British front had been advanced
over a wide area, for many miles in length, and imperturbable Tommies
were now smoking their pipes in many a reversed trench that had
theretofore been occupied by gray-clad Boches. But they were not
pleasant trenches to occupy. They were very narrow and very muddy, and
parts of the bodies of dead men protruded here and there from their
walls and parapets. Moreover, in December it is very cold in northern
France, and, muffle as they would, even the boys from Canada suffered
from the severity of the weather. They asked only to be permitted to
keep their blood warm by aggressive action against their enemy. And,
just before the Christmas holidays, the aggressive action they had
longed for came.

It was no great battle, no important historic event, just an incident
in the policy of attrition which was constantly wearing away the
German lines. An attempt was to be made to drive a wedge into the
enemy's front at a certain vital point, and, in order to cover the
real thrust, several feints were to be made at other places not far
away. One of these latter expeditions had been intrusted to a part of
Pen's battalion. At six o'clock in the afternoon the British artillery
was to bombard the first line of enemy trenches for an hour and a
half. Then the artillery fire was to lift to the second line, and the
Canadian troops were to rush the first line with the bayonet, carry
it, and when the artillery fire lifted to the third line they were to
pass on to the second hostile trench and take and hold that for a
sufficient length of time to divert the enemy from the point of real
attack, and then they were to withdraw to their own lines. Permanent
occupation of the captured trenches at the point seemed inadvisable at
this time, if not wholly impossible.

It was not a welcome task that had been assigned to these troops.
Soldiers like to hold the ground they have won in any fight; and to
retire after partial victory was not to their liking. But it was part
of the game and they were content. So far as his section was concerned
Pen assembled his men, explained the situation to them, and told them
frankly what they were expected to do.

"It's going to be a very pretty fight," he added, "probably the
hardest tussle we've had yet. The Boches are well dug in over there,
and they're well backed with artillery, and they're not going to give
up those trenches without a protest. Some of us will not come back;
and some of us who do come back will never fight again. You know that.
But, whatever happens, Canada and the States will have no reason to
blush for us. We're fighting in a splendid cause, and we'll do our
part like the soldiers we are."

"Aye! that we will!" "Right you are!" "Give us the chance!" "Wherever
you lead, we follow!"

It seemed as though every man in the section gave voice to his
willingness and enthusiasm.

"Good!" exclaimed Pen. "I knew you'd feel that way about it. I've
never asked a man of you to go where I wouldn't go myself, and I never
shall. I simply wanted to warn you that it's going to be a hot place
over there to-night, and you must be prepared for it."

"We're ready! All you've got to do is to say the word."

No undue familiarity was intended; respect for their commander was in
no degree lessened, but they loved him and would have followed him
anywhere, and they wanted him to know it.

The unusual activity in the Allied trenches, observed by enemy
aircraft, combined with the terrific cannonading of their lines, had
evidently convinced the enemy that some aggressive movement against
them was in contemplation, for their artillery fire now, at seven
o'clock, was directed squarely upon the outer lines of British
trenches, bringing havoc and horror in the wake of the exploding
shells.

It was under this galling bombardment that the men of the second
section adjusted their packs, buckled the last strap of their
equipment, took firm bold of their rifles, and crouched against the
front wall of their trench, ready for the final spring.

[Illustration: Into the Face of Death He Led the Remnant of His Brave
Platoon]

At seven-thirty o'clock the order came. It was a sharp blast of a
whistle, made by the commanding officer. The next moment, led by
Lieutenant Butler, the men were up, sliding over the parapet, worming
their way through gaps in their own wire entanglements, and forming in
the semblance of a line outside. It all took but a minute, and then
the rush toward the enemy trenches began. It seemed as though every
gun of every calibre in the German army was let loose upon them. The
artillery shortened its range and dropped exploding shells among them
with dreadful effect. Machine guns mowed them down in swaths.
Hand-grenades tore gaps in their ranks. Rifle bullets, hissing like
hail, took terrible toll of them. Out of the blackness overhead, lit
with the flame of explosions, fell a constant rain of metal, of clods
of earth, of fragments of equipment, of parts of human bodies. The
experience was wild and terrible beyond description.

Pen took no note of the whining and crashing missiles about him, nor
of the men falling on both sides of him, nor of the shrieking,
gesticulating human beings behind him. Into the face of death, his
eyes fixed on the curtain of fire before him, heroic and inspired, he
led the remnant of his brave platoon. Through the gaps torn out of the
enemy entanglements by the preliminary bombardment, and on into the
first line of Boche entrenchments they pounded and pushed their way.
Then came fighting indeed; hand to hand, with fixed bayonets and
clubbed muskets and death grapples in the darkness, and everywhere,
smearing and soaking the combatants, the blood of men. But the first
trench, already battered into a shapeless and shallow ravine, was won.
Canada was triumphant. The curtain of artillery fire lifted and fell
on the enemy's third line. So, now, forward again, leaving the
"trench cleaners" to hunt out those of the enemy who had taken
refuge in holes and caves. Again the rain of hurtling and hissing and
crashing steel. Human fortitude and endurance were indeed no match for
this. Again the clubs and bayonets and wild men reaching with
blood-smeared hands for each other's throats in the darkness.

And then, to Penfield Butler, at last, came the soldier's destiny. It
seemed as though some mighty force had struck him in the breast,
whirled him round and round, toppled him to earth, and left him lying
there, crushed, bleeding and unconscious. How long it was that he lay
oblivious of the conflict he did not know. But when he awakened to
sensibility the rush of battle had ceased. There was no fighting
around him. He had a sense of great suffocation. He knew that he was
spitting blood. He tried to raise his hand, and his revolver fell from
the nerveless fingers that were still grasping it. A little later he
raised his other hand to his breast and felt that his clothing was
torn and soaked. He lifted his head, and in the light of an enemy
flare he looked about him. He saw only the torn soil covered with
crouched and sprawling bodies of the wounded and the dead, and with
wreckage indescribable. Bullets were humming and whistling overhead,
and spattering the ground around him. Men in the agony of their wounds
were moaning and crying near by. He lay back and tried to think. By
the light of the next flare he saw the rough edge of a great
shell-hole a little way beyond him toward the British lines. In the
darkness he tried to crawl toward it. It would be safer there than in
this whistling cross-fire of bullets. He did not dare try to rise. He
could not turn himself on his stomach, the pain and sense of
suffocation were too great when he attempted it. So he pulled himself
along in the darkness on his back to the cavity, and sought shelter
within it. Bodies of others who had attempted to run or creep to it,
and had been caught by Boche bullets on the way, were hanging over its
edge. Under its protecting shoulder were many wounded, treating their
own injuries, helping others as they could in the darkness and by the
fitful light of the German flares. Some one, whose friendly voice was
half familiar, yet sounded strange and far away, dragged the exhausted
boy still farther into shelter, felt of his blood-soaked chest, and
endeavored, awkwardly and crudely, for he himself was wounded, to give
first aid. And then again came unconsciousness.

So, in the black night, in the shell-made cavern with the pall of
flame-streaked battle smoke hanging over it, and the whining,
screaming missiles from guns of friend and foe weaving a curtain of
tangled threads above it, this young soldier of the American Legion,
his breast shot half in two, his rich blood reddening the soil of
France, lay steeped in merciful oblivion.




CHAPTER XIII


When Colonel Butler declared his intention of going to New York and
Washington to consult with his friends about the great war, to urge
active participation in it by the United States, and to offer to the
proper authorities, his services as a military expert and commander,
his daughter protested vigorously. It was absurd, she declared, for
him, at his age, to think of doing anything of the kind; utterly
preposterous and absurd. But he would not listen to her. His mind was
made up, and she was entirely unable to divert him from his purpose.

"Then I shall go with you," she declared.

"May I ask," he inquired, "what your object is in wishing to accompany
me?"

"Because you're not fit to go alone. You're too old and feeble, and
something might happen to you."

He turned on her a look of infinite scorn.

"Age," he replied, "is no barrier to patriotism. A man's obligation to
serve his country is not measured by his years. I have never been more
capable of taking the field against an enemy of civilization than I am
at this moment. To suggest that I am not fit to travel unless
accompanied by a female member of my family falls little short of
being gross disrespect. I shall go alone."

Again she protested, but she was utterly unable to swerve him a hair's
breadth from his determination and purpose. So she was obliged to see
him start off by himself on his useless and Quixotic errand. She knew
that he would return disappointed, saddened, doubly depressed, and ill
both in body and mind.

Since Pen's abrupt departure to seek a home with his Grandpa Walker,
Colonel Butler had not been so obedient to his daughter's wishes. He
had changed in many respects. He had grown old, white-haired, feeble
and despondent. He was often ill at ease, and sometimes morose. That
he grieved over the boy's absence there was not a shadow of doubt. Yet
he would not permit the first suggestion of a reconciliation that did
not involve the humble application of his grandson to be forgiven and
taken back. But such an application was not made. The winter days went
by, spring blossomed into summer, season followed season, and not yet
had the master of Bannerhall seen coming down the long, gray road to
the old home the figure of a sorrowful and suppliant boy.

When the world war began, his mind was diverted to some extent from
his sorrow. From the beginning his sympathies had been with the
Allies. Old soldier that he was he could not denounce with sufficient
bitterness the spirit of militarism that seemed to have run rampant
among the Central Powers. At the invasion of Belgium and at the
mistreatment of her people, especially of her women and children, at
the bombardment of the cathedral of Rheims, at the sinking of the
_Lusitania_, at the execution of Edith Cavell, at all the outrages of
which German militarism was guilty, he grew more and more indignant
and denunciatory. His sense of fairness, his spirit of chivalry, his
ideas of honorable warfare and soldierly conduct were inexpressibly
shocked. The murder of sleeping women and children in country villages
by the dropping of bombs from airships, the suffocation of brave
soldiers by the use of deadly gases, the hurling of liquid fire into
the ranks of a civilized enemy; these things stirred him to the
depths. He talked of the war by day, he dreamed of it at night. He
chafed bitterly at the apparent attempt of the Government at
Washington to preserve the neutrality of this country against the most
provoking wrongs. It was our war, he declared, as much as it was the
war of any nation in Europe, and it was our duty to get into it for
the sake of humanity, at the earliest possible moment and at any cost.
His intense feeling and profound conviction in the matter led finally
to his determination to make the trip to New York and Washington in
order to present his views and make his recommendations, and to offer
his services in person, in quarters where he believed they would be
welcomed and acted on. So he went on what appeared to his daughter to
be the most preposterous errand he had ever undertaken.

He returned even sooner than she had expected him to come. In response
to his telegram she sent the carriage to the station to meet him on
the arrival of the afternoon train. When she heard the rumbling of the
wheels outside she went to the door, knowing that it would require her
best effort to cheerfully welcome the disappointed, dejected and
enfeebled old man. Then she had the surprise of her life. Colonel
Butler alighted from the carriage and mounted the porch steps with the
elasticity of youth. He was travel-stained and weary, indeed; but his
face, from which half the wrinkles seemed to have disappeared, was
beaming with happiness. He kissed his daughter, and, with
old-fashioned courtesy, conducted her to a porch chair. In her mind
there could be but one explanation for his extraordinary appearance
and conduct; the purpose of his journey had been accomplished and his
last absurd wish had been gratified.

"I suppose," she said, with a sigh, "they have agreed to adopt your
plans, and take you back into the army."

"Into the what, my dear?"

"Into the army. Didn't you go to Washington for the purpose of getting
back into service?"

"Why, yes. I believe I did. Pardon me, but, in view of matters of much
greater importance, the result of this particular effort had slipped
my mind."

"Matters of greater importance?"

"Yes. I was about to inform you that while I was in New York I
unexpectedly ran across my grandson, Master Penfield Butler."

She sat up with a look of surprise and apprehension in her eyes.

"Ran across Pen? What was he doing there?"

"He was on his way to Canada to join those forces of the Dominion
Government which will eventually sail for France, and help to free
that unhappy country from the heel of the barbarian."

"You mean--?"

"I mean that Penfield was to enlist, has doubtless now already
enlisted, with the Canadian troops which, after a period of drilling
at home, will enter the war on the firing line in northern France."

"Well, for goodness sake!" It was all that Aunt Millicent could say,
and when she had said that she practically collapsed.

"Yes," he rejoined, "he felt as did I, that the time had come for
American citizens, both old and young, with red blood in their veins,
to spill that blood, if necessary, in fighting for the liberty of the
world. Patriotism, duty, the spirit of his ancestors, called him, and
he has gone."

Colonel Butler was radiant. His eyes were aglow with enthusiasm. His
own recommendations for national conduct had gone unheeded indeed, and
his own offer of military service had been civilly declined; but these
facts were of small moment compared with the proud knowledge that a
young scion of his race was about to carry the family traditions and
prestige into the battle front of the greatest war for liberty that
the world had ever known.

In Pen's second letter home from Canada he told of the arrival and
enlistment of Aleck Sands, and of the complete blotting out of the old
feud that had existed between them. Later on he wrote them, in many
letters, all about his barrack life, and of how contented and happy he
was, and how eagerly he was looking forward to the day when he and his
comrades should cross the water to those countries where the great war
was a reality. The letter that he wrote the day before he sailed was
filled with the brightness of enthusiasm and the joy of anticipation.
And while the long period of drill on English soil became somewhat
irksome to him, as one reading between the lines could readily
discover, he made no direct complaint. It was simply a part of the
game. But it was when he had reached the front, and his letters
breathed the sternness of the conflict and echoed the thunder of the
guns, that he was at his best in writing. Mere salutations some of
them were, written from the trenches by the light of a dug-out candle,
but they pulsated with patriotism and heroism and a determination to
live up to the best traditions of a soldier's career.

Colonel Butler devoured every scrap of news that came from the front
in the half dozen papers that he read daily. He kept in close touch
with the international situation, he fumed constantly at the
inactivity of his own government in view of her state of
unpreparedness for a war into which she must sooner or later be
inevitably plunged. He lost all patience with what he considered the
timidity of the President, and what he called the stupidity of
congress. Was not the youngest and the reddest and the best of the
Butler blood at the fighting line, ready at any moment to be spilled
to the death on the altar of the world's liberty? Why then should the
government of the United States sit supinely by and see the finest
young manhood of her own and other lands fighting and perishing in the
cause of humanity when, by voicing the conscience of her people, and
declaring and making war on the Central Powers, she could most
effectually aid in bringing to a speedy and victorious end this
monstrous example of modern barbarism? Why, indeed!

One day Colonel Butler suggested to his daughter that she go up to
Lowbridge and again inquire whether Pen's mother had any needs of any
kind that he could possibly supply.

"And," he added, "I wish you to invite her to Bannerhall for a visit
of indefinite duration. In these trying and critical times my
daughter-in-law's place is in the ancestral home of her deceased
husband."

Aunt Millicent, delighted with the purport of her mission, went up to
Lowbridge and extended the invitation, and, with all the eloquence at
her command, urged its acceptance. But Sarah Butler was unyielding and
would not come. She had been wounded too deeply in years gone by.

So spring came, and blade, leaf and flower sprang into beautiful and
rejoicing existence. No one had ever before seen the orchard trees so
superbly laden with blossoms. No one had ever before seen a brighter
promise of a more bountiful season. And the country was still at
peace, enriching herself with a mintage coined of blood and sorrow
abroad, though drifting aimlessly and ever closer to the verge of
war.

There was a time early in July when, for two weeks, no letter came
from Pen. The suspense was almost unbearable. For days Colonel Butler
haunted the post-office. His self-assurance left him, his confident
and convincing voice grew weak, a haunting fear of what news might
come was with him night and day.

At last he received a letter from abroad. It was from Pen, addressed
in his own hand-writing. The colonel himself took it from his box at
the post-office in the presence of a crowd of his neighbors and
friends awaiting the distribution of their mail. It was scrawled in
pencil on paper that had never been intended to be used for
correspondence purposes.

Pen had just learned, he wrote, that the messenger who carried a
former letter from the trenches for him had been killed en route by an
exploding shell, and the contents of his mail pouch scattered and
destroyed. Moreover he had been very busy. Fighting had been brisk,
there had been a good many casualties in his company, but he himself,
save for some superficial wounds received on the Fourth of July, was
unhurt and reasonably well.

    "I am sorry to report, however," the letter continued, "that my
    comrade, Aleck Sands, has been severely wounded. We were engaged
    in a brisk assault on the enemy's lines on the Fourth of July, and
    captured some of their trenches. During the engagement Aleck
    received a bayonet wound in the shoulder, and a badly battered
    knee. I was able to help him off the field and to an ambulance. I
    believe he is somewhere now in a hospital not far to the rear of
    us. I mean to see him soon if I can find out where he is and get
    leave. Tell his folks that he fought like a hero. I never saw a
    braver man in battle.

    "You will be glad to learn that since the engagement on the fourth
    I have been made a sergeant, 'for conspicuous bravery in action,'
    the order read.

    "I suppose the flag is flying on the school-house staff these
    days. How I would like to see it. If I could only see the Stars
    and Stripes over here, and our own troops under it, I should be
    perfectly happy. The longer I fight here the more I'm convinced
    that the cause we're fighting for is a just and glorious one, and
    the more willing I am to die for it.

    "Give my dear love to Aunt Milly. I have just written to mother.

      "Your affectionate grandson,
        "Penfield Butler."


Colonel Butler looked up from the reading with moist eyes and glowing
face, to find a dozen of his townsmen who knew that the letter had
come, waiting to hear news from Pen.

"On Independence Day," said the colonel, in answer to their inquiries,
"he participated in a gallant and bloody assault on the enemy's lines,
in which many trenches were taken. Save for superficial wounds, easily
healed in the young and vigorous, he came out of the melée unscathed."

"Good for him!" exclaimed one.

"Bravo!" shouted another.

"And, gentlemen," the colonel's voice rose and swelled moderately as
he proceeded, "I am proud to say that, following that engagement, my
grandson, for conspicuous bravery in action, was promoted to the rank
of sergeant in the colonial troops of Great Britain."

"Splendid!"

"He's the boy!"

"We're proud of him!"

The colonel's eyes were flashing now; his head was erect, his one hand
was thrust into the bosom of his waistcoat.

"I thank you, gentlemen!" he said, "on behalf of my grandson. To pass
inherited patriotism from father to son, from generation to
generation, and to see it find its perfect fulfillment in the latest
scion of the race, is to live in the golden age, gentlemen, and to
partake of the fountain of youth."

His voice quavered a little at the end, and he waited for a moment to
recover it, and possibly to give his eloquence an opportunity to sink
in more deeply, and then he continued:

"I regret to say, gentlemen, that in the fierce engagement of the
fourth instant, my grandson's gallant comrade, Master Alexander Sands,
was severely wounded both in the shoulder and the knee, and is now
somewhere in a hospital in northern France, well back of the lines,
recuperating from his injuries. I shall communicate this information
at once to his parents, together with such encouragement as is
contained in my grandson's letter."

Proud as a king, he turned from the sympathetic group, entered his
carriage and was driven toward Chestnut Valley.

It was late in September when Aleck Sands came home. The family at
Bannerhall, augmented within the last year by the addition of Colonel
Butler's favorite niece, was seated at the supper table one evening
when Elmer Cuddeback, now grown into a fine, stalwart youth, hurried
in to announce the arrival.

"I happened to be at the station when Aleck came," he said. "He looked
like a skeleton and a ghost rolled into one. He couldn't walk at all,
and he was just able to talk. But he said he'd been having a fine time
and was feeling bully. Isn't that nerve for you?"

"Splendid!" exclaimed the colonel, holding his napkin high in the air
in his excitement. "A marvelous young man! I shall do myself the honor
to call on him in person to-morrow morning, and compliment him on his
bravery, and congratulate him on his escape from mortal injury."

He was as good as his word. He and his daughter both went down to
Cherry Valley and called on Aleck Sands. He was lying propped up in
bed, attended by a thankful and devoted mother, trying to give rest to
a tired and irritated body, and to enjoy once more the sights and
sounds of home. He was too weak to do much talking, but almost his
first words were an anxious inquiry about Pen. They told him what they
knew.

"He came to see me at the hospital in August," said Aleck. "It was
like a breeze from heaven. If he doesn't come back here alive and well
at the end of this war, with the Victoria Cross on his breast, I shall
be ashamed to go out on the street; he is so much the braver soldier
and the better man of the two of us."

"He has written to us," said the colonel, and his eyes were moist, and
his voice choked a little as he spoke, "that you, yourself, in the
matter of courage in battle, upheld the best traditions of American
bravery, and I am proud of you, sir, as are all of your townsmen."

The colonel would have remained to listen to further commendation of
his grandson, and to discuss with one who had actually been on the
fighting line, the conditions under which the war was being waged;
but his daughter, seeing that the boy needed rest, brought the visit
to a speedy close.

"Give my love to Pen when you write to him," said Aleck, as he bade
them good-by; "the bravest soldier--and the dearest comrade--that ever
carried a gun."

After the winter holidays a week went by with no letter from Pen. The
colonel began to grow anxious, but it was not until the end of the
second week that he really became alarmed. And when three weeks had
gone by, and neither the mails nor the cable nor the wireless had
brought any news of the absent soldier, Colonel Butler was on the
verge of despair. He had haunted the post-office as before, he had
made inquiry at the state department at Washington, he had telegraphed
to Canada for information, but nothing came of it all. Aleck Sands had
heard absolutely nothing. Pen's mother, almost beside herself,
telephoned every day to Bannerhall for news, and received none. The
strain of apprehensive waiting became almost unbearable for them all.

One day, unable longer to withstand the heart-breaking tension, the
old patriot sent an agent post-haste to Toronto, with instructions to
spare no effort and no expense in finding out what had become of his
grandson.

Three days later, from his agent came a telegram reading as follows:

    "Lieutenant Butler in hospital near Rouen. Wound severe. Suffering
    now from pneumonia. Condition serious but still hopeful. Details
    by letter."

This telegram was received at Bannerhall in the morning. In the early
afternoon of the same day Pen's mother received a letter written three
weeks earlier by his nurse at the hospital. She was an American girl
who had been long in France, and who, from the beginning of the war,
had given herself whole-heartedly to the work at the hospitals.

    "Do not be unduly alarmed," she wrote, "he is severely wounded;
    evidently a hand-grenade exploded against his breast; but if we
    are able to ward off pneumonia he will recover. He has given me
    your name and address, and wished me to write. I think an early
    and cheerful letter from you would be a great comfort to him, and
    I hope he will be able to appreciate some gifts and dainties from
    home by the time they could reach here. Let me add that he is a
    model patient, quiet and uncomplaining, and I am told that he was
    among the bravest of all the brave Americans fighting with the
    Canadian forces on the Somme."

Between Bannerhall and Sarah Butler's home at Lowbridge the telephone
lines were busy that day. It was a relief to all of them to know that
Pen was living and being cared for; it was a source of apprehension
and grief to them that his condition, as intimated in the telegram,
was still so critical.

As for Colonel Butler he was in a fever of excitement and distress.
Late in the afternoon he went to his room and, with his one hand,
began, hastily and confusedly, to pack a small steamer trunk. His
daughter found him so occupied.

"What in the world are you doing?" she asked him.

"I am preparing to go to Rouen," he replied, "to see that my grandson
is cared for in his illness in a manner due to one who has placed his
life in jeopardy for France."

"Father, stand up! Look at me! Listen to me!" The very essence of
determination was in her voice and manner, and he obeyed her. "You are
not to stir one step from this town. Sarah Butler and I are going to
France to be with Pen; we have talked it over and decided on it; and
you are going to stay right here at Bannerhall, where you can be of
supreme service to us, instead of burdening us with your company."

He looked at her steadily for a moment, but he saw only rigid
resolution and determination in her eyes; he was too unstrung and
broken to protest, or to insist on his right as head of the house, and
so--he yielded. Later in the day, however, a compromise was effected.
It was agreed that he should accompany his daughter and his
daughter-in-law to New York, aid them in securing passage, passports
and credentials, and see them safely aboard ship for their perilous
journey, after which he was to return home and spend the time quietly
with his niece Eleanor, and make necessary preparations for the
return of the invalid, later on, to Bannerhall.

He carried out his part of the New York program in good faith, and had
the satisfaction, three days later, of bidding the two women good-by
on the deck of a French liner bound for Havre. He had no apprehension
concerning the fitness of his daughter to go abroad unaccompanied save
by her sister-in-law. She had been with him on three separate trips to
the continent, and, in his judgment, for a woman, she had displayed
marked traveling ability. His only fear was of German submarines.

"A most cowardly, dastardly, uncivilized way," he declared, "of waging
war upon an enemy's women and children."

He was in good spirits as the vessel sailed. His parting words to his
daughter were:

"If you should have occasion to discuss with our friends in France the
attitude of this nation toward the war, you may say that it is my
opinion that the conscience of the country is now awake, and that
before long we shall be shoulder to shoulder with them in the
destruction of barbarism."




CHAPTER XIV


For twenty-five years there has stood, in one of the faubourgs of
Rouen, not far from the right bank of the Seine, a long two-story
brick building, with a wing reaching back to the base of the hill. Up
to the year 1915 it was used as a factory for the making of silk
ribbons. Rouen had been a center of the cotton manufacturing industry
from time immemorial. Why therefore should not the making of silk be
added? It was added, and the enterprise grew and became prosperous.
Then came the war, vast, terrible, bringing in its train suffering,
poverty, a drastic curtailment of all the luxuries of life. Silk
ribbons are a luxury; they go with soft living. So, then; _voilà
tout!_ Before the end of the first year of the conflict the factory
was transformed into a hospital. The clatter of looms and the chatter
of girls gave place to the moanings of sick and wounded men, and the
gentle voices of white and blue clad nurses. It was no longer bales
of raw silk that were carted up to the big doors of the factory, and
boxes of rolled ribbon that were trundled down the drive to the
street, to the warehouses, and thence to the admiring eyes of
beauty-loving women. The human freight that was brought to the big
doors in these days consisted of the pierced and mutilated bodies of
men; soldiers for whom the final taps would soon sound. If they
chanced to be of the British troops, and held fast to the spark of
life within them, then they were close enough to the seaport to be
taken across the channel for final convalescence under English skies.

It was to this hospital that Lieutenant Penfield Butler was brought
from the battlefield of the Somme. His battalion had done the work
assigned to it in the fight, had done it well, and had withdrawn to
its trenches, leaving a third of its men dead or wounded between the
lines. Later on, under cover of a galling artillery fire, rescue
parties had gone out to bring in the wounded. They had found Pen in
the shelter of the shell-hole, still unconscious. They had brought him
back across the fire-swept field, and down through the winding,
narrow trenches, to the first-aid station, from which, after a hurried
examination and superficial treatment of his wounds, he was taken in a
guard-car to a field hospital in the rear of the lines. But space in
these field hospitals is too precious to permit of wounded men who can
be moved without fatal results, remaining in them for long periods.
The stream of newcomers is too constant and too pressing. So, after
five days, Pen was sent, by way of Amiens, to the hospital in the
suburbs of Rouen. He, himself, knew little of where he was or of what
was being done for him. A bullet had grazed his right arm, and a
clubbed musket or revolver had laid his scalp open to the bone. But
these were slight injuries in comparison with the awful wound in his
breast. Torn flesh, shattered bones, pierced lungs, these things left
life hanging by the slenderest thread. When the _médecin-chef_ of the
hospital near Rouen took his first look at the boy after his arrival,
he had him put under the influence of an anaesthetic in order that he
could the more readily and effectively examine, probe and dress the
wound, and remove any irritating splinters of bone that might be the
cause of the continuous leakage from the lungs. But when he had
finished his delicate and strenuous task he turned to the nurse at his
side and gave a hopeless shake of his head and shrug of his shoulders.

"_Fichu!_" he said; "_le laisser tranquille_."

"But I am not going to let him die," she replied; "he is too young,
too handsome, too brave, and _he is an American_."

He smiled, shook his head again and passed on to the next case. The
girl was an American too, and these American nurses were always so
optimistic, so faithfully persistent, she might pull him through,
but--the smile of incredulity still lay on the lips of the
_médecin-chef_.

The next day the young soldier was better. The leakage had not yet
wholly ceased; but the wound was apparently beginning to heal. He was
still dazed, and his pain was still too severe to be endured without
opiates. It was five days later that he came fully to his senses, was
able to articulate, and to frame intelligent sentences. He indicated
to his nurse, Miss Byron, that he wished to have his mother written
to.

"No especial message," he whispered, "just that I am here--have been
wounded--recovering."

But the nurse had already learned from other men of Pen's company,
less seriously wounded than he, who were at the same hospital,
something about the boy's desperate bravery, and how his stern
fighting qualities were combined with great tenderness of heart and a
most loving disposition, and she could not avoid putting an echo of it
in her letter to his mother.

Later on Pen developed symptoms of pneumonia, a disease that follows
so often on an injury to the structure of the lungs.

When the _médecin-chef_ came and noted the increase in temperature and
the decrease in vitality, he looked grave. Every day, with true French
courtesy, he had congratulated Miss Byron on her remarkable success in
nursing the young American back to life. But now, perhaps, after all,
the efforts of both of them would be wasted. Pneumonia is a hard foe
to fight when it attacks wounded lungs. So an English physician was
called in and joined with the French surgeon and the American nurse to
combat the dreaded enemy. It seemed, somehow, as if each of them felt
that the honor of his or her country was at stake in this battle with
disease and death across that hospital bed in the old factory near
Rouen.

It was late in February when Pen's mother and his Aunt Millicent
reached Havre, and took the next available train up to Rouen. They had
not heard from Pen since sailing, and they were almost beside
themselves with anxiety and apprehension. But the telephone service
between the city and its faubourgs is excellent, Aunt Millicent could
speak French with comparative fluency, and it was not many minutes
after their arrival before they had obtained connection with the
hospital and were talking with Miss Byron.

"He is very ill," she said, "but we feel that the crisis of his
disease has passed, and we hope for his recovery."

So, then, he was still living, and there was hope. In the early
twilight of the winter evening the two women rode out to the suburban
town and went up to the hospital to see him. He did not open his eyes,
nor recognize them in any way, he did not even know that they were
with him.

"There have been many complications of the illness from his wound,"
said the nurse; "double pneumonia, typhoid symptoms, and what not; we
dared not hope for him for a while, but we feel now that perhaps the
worst is over. He has made a splendid fight for his life," she added;
"he deserves to win. And he is the favorite of the hospital. Every one
loves him. The first question all my patients ask me when I make my
first round for the day is 'How is the young American lieutenant this
morning?' Oh, if good wishes and genuine affection can keep him with
us, he will stay."

So, with tear-wet faces, grateful yet still anxious, the two women
left him for the night and sought hospitality at a modest _pension_ in
the neighborhood of the hospital.

But a precious life still hung in the balance. As he had lain for many
days, so the young soldier continued to lie, for many days to come,
apparently without thought or vitality, save that those who watched
him could catch now and then a low murmur from his lips, and could see
the faint rise and fall of his scarred and bandaged breast.

Then, so slowly that it seemed to those who looked lovingly on that
ages were going by, he began definitely to mend. He could open his
eyes, and move his head and hands, and he seemed to grasp, by degrees,
the fact that his mother and his Aunt Millicent were often sitting at
his bedside. But when he tried to speak his tongue would not obey his
will.

One day, when he awakened from a refreshing sleep, he seemed brighter
and stronger than he had been at any time before. The two women whom
he most loved were sitting on opposite sides of his cot, and his
devoted and delighted nurse stood near by, smiling down on him. He
smiled back up at each of them in turn, but he made no attempt to
speak. He seemed to know that he had not yet the power of
articulation.

His cot, in an alcove at the end of the main aisle, was so placed
that, when the curtains were drawn aside, he could, at will, look
down the long rows of beds where once the looms had clattered, and
watch wan faces, and recumbent forms under the white spreads, and
nurses, some garbed in white, and some in blue, and some in more sober
colors, moving gently about among the sufferers in performance of
their thrice-blest and most angelic tasks. It was there that he was
looking now, and the two women at his bedside who were watching him,
saw that his eyes were fixed, with strange intensity, on some object
in the distance. They turned to see what it was. To their utter
astonishment and dismay they discovered, marching up the aisle,
accompanied by an _infirmière_, Colonel Richard Butler. Whence, when,
and how he had come, they knew not. He stopped at the entrance to the
alcove, and held up his hand as though demanding silence. And there
was silence. No one spoke or stirred. He looked down at Pen who lay,
still speechless, staring up at him in surprise and delight.

Into the colonel's glowing face there came a look of tenderness, of
rapt sympathy, of exultant pride, that those who saw it will never
forget.

He stepped lightly forward and took Pen's limp hand in his and pressed
it gently.

"God bless you, my boy!" he said.

No one had ever heard Richard Butler say "God bless you" before, and
no one ever heard him say it again. But when he said it that day to
the dark-haired, white faced, war-worn soldier on the cot in the
hospital near Rouen, the words came straight from a big, and brave,
and tender heart.

He laid Pen's hand slowly back on the counterpane, and then he parted
his white moustache, as he had done that night at the hotel in New
York, and bent over and kissed the boy's forehead. It may have been
the rapture of the kiss that did it; God knows; but at that moment
Pen's tongue was loosened, his lips parted, and he cried out:

"Grandfather!"

With a judgment and a self-denial rare among men, the colonel answered
the boy's greeting with another gentle hand-clasp, and a beneficent
smile, and turned and marched proudly and gratefully back down the
long aisle, stopping here and there to greet some sick soldier who had
given him a friendly look or smile, until he stood in the open doorway
and lifted up his eyes to gaze on the blue line of distant hills
across the Seine.

Later, when the two women came to him, and he went with them to the
_pension_ where they were staying, he explained to them the cause of
his sudden and unheralded appearance. He had received their cablegrams
indeed; but these, instead of serving to allay his anxiety, had made
it only the more acute. To wait now for letters was impossible. His
patience was utterly exhausted. He could no more have remained quietly
at home than he could have shut up his eyes and ears and mouth and
lain quietly down to die. The call that came to him from the bed of
his beloved grandson in France, that sounded in his ears day-time and
night-time as he paced the floors of Bannerhall, was too insistent and
imperious to be resisted. Against the vigorous protests of his niece,
and the timid remonstrances of the few friends who were made aware of
his purpose, he put himself in readiness to sail on the next
out-going steamer that would carry him to his longed-for destination.
And it was only after he had boarded the vessel, and had felt the slow
movement of the ship as she was warped out into the stream, that he
became contented, comfortable, thoroughly at ease in body and mind,
and ready to await patiently whatever might come to him at the end of
his journey.

So it was in good health and spirits that he landed at Havre, came up
to Rouen, and made his way to the hospital.

And for once in her life his daughter did not chide him. Instinctively
she felt the power of the great tenderness and yearning in his breast
that had impelled him to come, and, so far as any word of disapproval
was concerned, she was silent.

He talked much about Pen. He asked what they had learned concerning
his bravery in battle, the manner in which he had received his wounds,
the nature of his long illness, and the probability of his continued
convalescence.

"I hope," said Pen's mother, "that I shall be able to take him back
to Lowbridge next month."

The old man looked up in surprise and alarm.

"To Lowbridge?" he said, and added: "Not to Lowbridge, Sarah Butler.
My grandson will return to Bannerhall, the home of his ancestors."

"Colonel Butler, my son's home is with me."

"And your home," replied the colonel, "is with me. My son's widow must
no longer live under any other roof than mine. The day of estrangement
has fully passed. You will find welcome and affection, and, I hope, an
abundance of happiness at Bannerhall."

She did not answer him; she could not. Nor did he demand an answer. He
seemed to take it for granted that his wish in the matter would be
complied with, and his will obeyed. But it was not until his daughter
Millicent, by much argument and persuasion, through many days, had
convinced her that her place was with them, that her son's welfare and
his grandfather's length of days depended on both mother and son
complying with Colonel Butler's wish and demand, that she consented
to blot out the past and to go to live at Bannerhall.

It was on the second day of April, 1917, that the President of the
United States read his world famous message to Congress, asking that
body to "declare the recent course of the Imperial German Government
to be in fact nothing less than war against the Government and people
of the United States" and to "employ all of its resources to bring the
Government of Germany to terms and to end the war."

And it was on the third day of April that Colonel Richard Butler,
walking up the long aisle of the war hospital near Rouen in the late
afternoon, smiled and nodded to right and left and said:

"At last we are with you; we are with you. America has answered the
call of her conscience, she will now come into her own."

And they smiled back at him, did these worn and broken men, for the
news of the President's declaration had already filtered through the
wards; and they waved their hands to the brave American colonel with
the white moustache, stern visage, and tender heart, and in sturdy
English and voluble French and musical Italian, they congratulated him
and his noble grandson, and the charming ladies of his family, on the
splendid words of his President, to which words the patriotic Congress
would surely respond.

And Congress did respond. The Senate on April 4, and the House on
April 6, by overwhelming majorities, passed a resolution in full
accordance with the President's recommendation, declaring that a state
of war had been thrust upon the United States by the German
government, and authorizing and directing the President "to employ the
entire naval and military forces of the United States, and the
resources of the government, to carry on war against the Imperial
German government."

Colonel Richard Butler was at last content.

"I am proud of my country," he declared, "and of my President and
Congress. I have cabled the congressman from my district to tender my
congratulations to Mr. Wilson, and to offer my services anew in
whatever capacity my government can use them."

If he had favored the Allied cause before going abroad he was now
thrice the partisan that he had been. For he had seen France. He had
seen her, bled white in her heroic endeavor to drive the invader from
her soil. He had seen her ruined homes, and cities, and temples of
art. He had seen her women and her aged fathers and her young children
doing the work of her able-bodied men who were on the fighting line,
replacing those hundreds of thousands who were lying in heroes'
graves. He had been, by special favor, taken to the front, where he
had seen the still grimmer visage of war, had caught a glimpse of life
in the trenches, of death on the field, and had heard the sweep and
the rattle and the roar of unceasing conflict. And in his eyes and
voice as he walked up and down the aisles of the hospital near Rouen,
or sat at the bedside of his grandson, was always a reflection of
these things that he himself had seen and heard.

And he was a favorite in the wards. Not alone because he so often came
with his one arm laden with little material things to cheer and
comfort them, but because these men with the pierced and broken and
mutilated bodies admired and liked him. Whenever they saw the familiar
figure, tall, soldierly, the sternly benevolent countenance with its
white moustache and kindling eyes, enter at the hospital doors and
walk up between the long rows of cots, their faces would light up with
pleasure and admiration, and the friendliness of their greetings would
be hearty and unalloyed.

Somehow they seemed to look upon him as the symbol and representative
of his country, the very embodiment of the spirit of his own United
States. And now that his government had definitely entered into the
war, he was in their eyes, thrice the hero and the benefactor that he
had been before.

When he entered the hospital the morning after news of America's war
declaration had been received, and turned to march up the aisle toward
his grandson's alcove, he was surprised and delighted to see from
every cot in the ward, and from every nurse on the floor, a hand
thrust up holding a tiny American flag. It was the hospital's greeting
to the American colonel, in honor of his country. He stood, for a
moment, thrilled and amazed. The demonstration struck so deeply into
his big and patriotic heart that his voice choked and his eyes filled
with tears as he passed up the long aisle.

There were many greetings as he went by.

"Hurrah for the President!"

"Vive l'Amerique!"

And one deep-throated Briton, in a voice that rolled from end to end
of the ward shouted:

"God bless the United States!"

[Illustration: The French Hospital's Greeting To the American Colonel]

But perhaps no one was more rejoiced over the fact of America's
entrance into the war than was Penfield Butler. From the moment when
he heard the news of the President's message he seemed to take on new
life. And as each day's paper recorded the developing movements, and
the almost universal sentiment of the American people in sustaining
the government at Washington, his pulses thrilled, color came into his
blanched face, and new light into eyes that not long before had looked
for many weeks at material things and had seen them not.

He was sitting up in his bed that morning, and had seen his
grandfather come up the aisle amid the forest of little flags and the
sound of cheering voices.

Grouped around him were' his mother, his Aunt Millicent, the
_médecin-chef_, and his devoted nurse, the American girl, Miss Byron.
She was waving a small, silk American flag that had long been one of
her cherished possessions.

"We are so proud of America to-day, Colonel Butler," she exclaimed,
"that we can't help cheering and waving flags."

And the _médecin-chef_ shouted joyously:

"_À la bonne heure, mon Colonel!_"

Pen, looking on with glowing eyes and cheeks flushed with enthusiasm,
called out:

"Grandfather, isn't it glorious? If I could only fight it all over
again, now, under my own American flag!"

Colonel Butler's face had never before been so radiant, his eyes so
tender, or his voice so vibrant with emotion as when standing on the
raised edge of the alcove, he replied:

"On behalf of my beloved country, ladies and gentlemen, I thank you.
She has taken her rightful place on the side of humanity. Her flag,
splendid and spotless, floats, to-day, side by side with the tri-color
and the Union Jack, over the manhood of nations united to save the
world from bondage and barbarism."

He faced the _médecin-chef_ and continued: "Your cry to us to 'come
over into Macedonia and help' you, shall no longer go unheeded. Our
wealth, our brains, our brawn shall be poured into your country as
freely as water, to aid you in bringing the German tyrant to his
knees, and, as our great President has said: 'To make the world safe
for democracy.'"

He turned toward the rapt faces of the listening scores who lined the
wards: "And men, my brothers, I say to you that you have not fought
and suffered in vain. We shall win this war; and out of our great
victory shall come that thousand years of peace foretold by holy men
of old, in which your flag, and yours, and yours, and mine, floating
over the heads of freemen in each beloved land, will be the most
inspiring, the most beautiful, the most splendid thing on which the
sun's rays shall ever fall."




Short Historical Sketch of the United States Flag


After the war of the Revolution, it became necessary for the newly
formed United States of America to devise a symbol, representing their
freedom. During the war the different colonies had displayed various
flags, but no national emblem had been selected. The American
Congress, consequently, on the 14th of June, 1777, passed the
following Resolution:

    "Resolved, That the flag of the thirteen united states shall be
    thirteen stripes, alternate red and white, that the union be
    thirteen stars, white in a blue field, representing a new
    constellation."

Betsy Ross, an upholsterer, living at 239 Arch Street, Philadelphia,
Pa., had the honor of making the first flag for the new republic. The
little house where she lived is still standing, and preserved as a
memorial. This flag contained the thirteen stripes as at present, but
the stars were arranged in a circle. This arrangement was later
changed to horizontal lines, and the flag continued to have thirteen
stars and thirteen stripes until 1795. When Vermont and Kentucky were
added to the Union, two more stripes, as well as two more stars, were
added. In 1817, it was seen that it would not be practicable to add a
new stripe for each new state admitted to the Union, so after
deliberation, Congress, in 1818, passed the following Act:

    "An Act to establish the flag of the United States.

    "Sec. 1. That from and after the 4th of July next, the flag of the
    United States be thirteen horizontal stripes, alternate red and
    white--that the Union have twenty stars, white in a blue field.

    "Sec. 2. Be it further enacted, that on the admission of every new
    State into the Union, one star be added to the Union of the flag,
    and that such addition shall take effect on the 4th of July next
    succeeding such admission."

Since the passing of this Act, star after star has been added to the
blue field until it now contains forty-eight, each one representing a
staunch and loyal adherent.




Boy Scouts Pledge to the Flag


"I pledge allegiance to my flag and to the Republic for which it
stands; one nation indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."