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                             THE GUARDSMAN




[Illustration: THE KNIFE DROPPED FROM THE MAN’S HAND]




                             The Guardsman

                                  By

                             HOMER GREENE
             _Author of “The Flag,” “Pickett’s Gap,” etc._


                            [Illustration]


                             PHILADELPHIA
                      GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY
                              PUBLISHERS




                          Copyright, 1919, by
                      GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY


                         _All rights reserved_
                          Printed in U. S. A.




List of Illustrations


 The knife dropped from the man’s hand                  _Frontispiece_

 “I will go to-day, Mr. Barriscale,” responded Hal     _Facing p. 154_

 He helped to lift Chick into the car                  _Facing p. 302_




The Guardsman




CHAPTER I


Hallowe’en! Religion, romance and mischief give life and color to the
name. But in the mind of the American boy mischief is the predominating
thought when the name is spoken. It is still a mystery why this
particular night should have been chosen for indulgence in that form
of juvenile pleasure which consists chiefly in removing loose property
of Mr. Smith to the front yard of Mr. Jones. But that it has been so
chosen no early promenader of the streets on the first morning in
November will have the temerity to deny. Convincing evidence of such
transfers may be seen in almost every block.

The boys of the city of Fairweather were not different from the boys
of other American cities and villages in this respect. So it was that
on Hallowe’en in the year 1909, groups of these young citizens, on
mischief bent, were plainly visible to the discerning eye. In the
well-lighted and peopled streets they paraded boisterously, through the
darker ways they stole quietly with whispered words.

It was not a pleasant night to be out, rain had fallen during the day,
and with the cessation of the storm had come a mist that shrouded the
town, blurred the lights, and made the wet air heavy and lifeless.

A small group of boys, perhaps a half dozen, ranging in age from
twelve to sixteen years, moved quietly up a side street and approached
the business quarter of the city. If they had been in mischief the
evidences of it were not visible among them. If they contemplated
mischief, only a reader of minds could have discovered that fact.

It was past midnight. Few people were abroad. A loitering policeman
stopped at a street-corner as the boys went by and carelessly scanned
the group. They were not openly violating any law nor breaking any city
ordinance, therefore it was not his duty to interfere with their proper
use of the highway, nor to investigate their proposed activities. So
he swung his club back against his forearm, hummed under his breath
a tune that he used to know as a boy, and went placidly on about his
business. But if he had been suspicious, and had stealthily followed
them, he might have seen something that would have aroused within him
a measure of zeal in the performance of his undeniable duties. For,
passing down the main street of the city, not three blocks distant from
the corner where they had met the guardian of the public peace, these
young American citizens came to a cobbler’s shop on the door-casing of
which hung a board sign inscribed with the words:

    “PUPPIES FOR SALE HERE.”

“That sign,” said Halpert McCormack, the apparent leader of the group,
“ought to come down. In my opinion a cobbler has no business to be
selling puppies. ‘Shoemaker, stick to your last!’ That’s a proverb we
parsed in Miss Buskin’s class this morning. What do you say, fellows?”

“Sure it ought to come down,” was the immediate and unanimous response.

“Besides,” added Little Dusty, the youngest boy in the company, “his
puppies is no good anyway. My cousin Joe bought one off of him last
week, and he can’t even bark yet.”

One member of the group, inclined to be facetious, inquired:

“Who can’t bark? Joe or the dog?”

“Neither one of ’em,” was the quick reply. “But the puppy’s got fleas
an’ Joe ain’t.”

“That settles it,” said Hal McCormack, gravely. “A man that will sell
puppies with fleas on ’em deserves no consideration from us.”

“Right you are!” was the response. “Here goes!”

It took but a minute to cut the sign loose from its fastenings and to
carry it around into a side street where darkness threw a protecting
mantle over mischief.

One of the other boys turned to Hal. “Well,” he said, “you told us to
take it down; now you got to say what we do with it.”

“Blessed if I know,” replied Hal.

“Stick it up somewheres,” suggested Little Dusty.

“Sure, stick it up somewheres,” exclaimed the first boy, “but where?”

“We might fasten it to the sign o’ Jim Nagel, the butcher,” responded
Little Dusty.

Then a boy known as Slicker spoke up. “Butchers don’t sell puppies,” he
said, “they buy ’em. Folks’d think he was goin’ out o’ business if he
put up a sign like that.”

“Oh,” commented Hal, “can that joke. It’s got whiskers.”

“Besides,” continued Slicker, “I know a better stunt than that. We’ll
take it up to Barriscale’s, an’ fasten it on the gate-post.”

“Gee!” exclaimed Little Dusty. “My dad works at Barriscale’s, and if
Mr. Barriscale found out I had a hand in it, Pop might get fired.”

“Well,” replied Slicker, “nobody’s goin’ to know who had a hand in it.
We ain’t goin’ to hire no brass band an’ go around shoutin’ what we
done. Are we, Hal?”

“No,” said Hal soberly. “This is secret business. No boy’s got a right
to tell on anybody but himself, not even if they skin him alive. I
won’t.”

“Nor I,” “Nor I.” The response was unanimous and whole-hearted.

“I don’t know about this Barriscale business, though,” added Hal. “If
Mr. Barriscale should get mad about it, he’d scour the city to find out
who did it, and then he’d have us all put in jail. Young Ben isn’t any
easy proposition to butt up against, either.”

“Oh, you’re chicken-hearted!” exclaimed Slicker. “It’s no fun to swipe
things if you don’t put ’em where folks don’t like it. I say hang the
puppy sign on the king’s gate-post an’ let the consekences take care o’
theirselves. Am I right?”

“Right you are!” responded one member of the group after another. But
Hal said: “Well, whatever you fellows say, goes. I’m game if you are.
Where’s your sign? Let me have it!”

He took the oblong board and concealed it under the capacious folds of
his rain-coat. “Now,” he added, “come on!”

So they started, heading again toward the main street of the city. Two
blocks up that street they once more passed the loitering policeman on
duty. If he had any suspicion that the outer garment of the leader of
the group hid contraband property from his sight he did not mention it.
But when they were well by he turned and called to them.

“You boys,” he said, “have no business on the street this time o’
night. I want you to go home, every one o’ you.”

“That’s where we’re headed for,” replied Slicker; and with that the
incident was closed.

Benjamin Barriscale, toward whose private property the boys were
moving, was at the head of the principal industry of the city, operated
by a corporation known as the Barriscale Manufacturing Company. He
was reputed to be a man of great wealth, of unbending will, generous
or domineering as best suited his purpose. To invade his premises at
midnight, on a mischief-making errand, was therefore an adventure which
called for both courage and caution. His mansion was a full half mile
from the center of the city; a square, stately house set well back from
the street in the midst of a spacious lawn. Two massive, ornamental
gate-posts guarded the entrance to the grounds, but the gates that
swung between them were rarely closed. When the boys reached the place
it was well past midnight and the lights in the electric lamps at the
porch entrance had been extinguished. A single gleam showed faintly at
an upper window; for the rest the darkness was complete save that a
street lamp, a block away, endeavored, quite ineffectually, to send
its rays into the thick mist overhanging the Barriscale grounds. For
the perpetration of undiscoverable mischief the night was ideal.

Midway of the journey the heavy board sign had been transferred from
its hiding-place under Hal’s rain-coat to the possession of two of the
younger boys. Even to them it had grown increasingly substantial, and
they were not loath now to relieve themselves of their burden.

After careful inspection of the gate-post it was the consensus of
opinion that there was but one place on it where the sign could be
conspicuously and safely fastened, and that was at the moulding near
the top of the post.

And to hold it in place a piece of stout twine of sufficient length to
pass across the face of the board and be tied behind the iron ornament
at the summit was absolutely necessary. But the twine was immediately
forthcoming. There was scarcely a boy in the company who had not that
necessary equipment in one or another of his pockets. And the combined
supply of the group, doubled and twisted and knotted, left nothing in
the way of fastening material to be desired. So the puppy sign was
hoisted into place, and two boys, at the risk of tumbling and breaking
their necks, anchored it securely to the stone coping and the iron
ornaments of Benjamin Barriscale’s massive gate-post.

But the incident was not yet quite closed. Before the mischief-makers
were ready to turn their faces toward the street Slicker bethought
himself of a supplementary task.

“Who’s got some black crayon?” he asked of the company.

No one appeared to have black crayon, but Little Dusty was able to
produce a stub of a carpenter’s pencil which he had somewhere acquired,
and he turned it over to the questioner.

“That’s the goods,” said Slicker. “Now hoist me up again.”

Supported on the shoulders of two of his comrades, and steadying
himself with his left hand, he scrawled on the lower face of the board,
in large black letters:

“Buy young Ben. He’s the only puppy left.”

When he had been carefully lowered to the sidewalk Slicker told his
inquiring companions what he had written.

“That was a mistake!” exclaimed Hal. “They’ll have it in for us now,
sure!”

“Let ’em,” replied Slicker.

“But you don’t know what you’ll be up against.”

“Maybe they’ll tell me if I ask ’em,” responded Slicker lightly.

Then Little Dusty spoke up.

“I hope Ben sees it himself,” said Dusty. “He’ll know what some boys
thinks of him.”

“And we ain’t the only ones that think that way, either,” added another
member of the group.

“You bet we ain’t!” exclaimed still another. “I know lots o’ fellows
that’s got no use for him at all.”

It was very true that Benjamin Barriscale, Jr., was not especially
popular with boys of his age. He was the only son of the wealthiest
man in the city; he appreciated that fact, and was self-important
accordingly. He was not offensively aristocratic or domineering, but he
was unsocial, undemocratic, uncompanionable. He had his own group of
friends, boys who followed him and flattered him, but he never seemed
to inspire a spirit of true comradeship in any one.

Having at last finished the work in hand the Hallowe’en mischief-makers
again faced toward the street, prepared now to follow the friendly
advice of the down-town policeman.

But Slicker, with a low whistle, brought them to a sudden halt.

“We forgot somethin’,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

“What?” was the unanimous inquiry.

“We ain’t takin’ anything away. We got to take as much as we bring.
’Twouldn’t be fair to the rest o’ the places we visited if we didn’t do
anything here but just leave a sign on a gate-post.”

“What is they to take?” inquired Little Dusty.

“I don’t know,” replied Slicker, “but we got to find somethin’. Come on
back!”

Hal began to demur, but he was speedily overruled by the rest, and
was quickly prevailed upon to accompany them. In single file, led by
Slicker, they passed between the gate-posts and up the paved walk.

Then they stopped to listen. Out from the darkness at the left came
gently the sound of splashing water. The boys knew, every one knew,
that there was an ornamental fountain there. It had been a feature of
the Barriscale lawn for many years. They also knew that, peering into
the basin from the rim was the marble figure of a kneeling boy.

“Sh!” said Slicker. “What do you say if we cop the marble kid?”

“Great!” replied two of the boys. “Fine!” exclaimed Little Dusty. “But
can we get her loose?”

“Sure we can. It ain’t spiked down. I know how it sets.”

Slicker had already started across the lawn, and the others followed.

But when they reached the fountain Hal again put in a word of protest.

“We mustn’t do that,” he said. “That thing cost money. S’pose we should
drop it an’ break it?”

“Aw, we’ll be careful. See! It’s loose.” And Slicker, moving the corner
of the statue gently, proved his contention that it could be easily
removed. Indeed, one stout boy could have lifted it from its resting
place and carried it away. “Here you, Billy,” added Slicker, “give us a
lift.”

“Sh!” whispered Little Dusty. “Somebody’s comin’. Drop it an’ duck!”

They left the statue and threw themselves prostrate on the grass to
await the passing by of the person whose footsteps they had heard. It
was a man, evidently belated and walking rapidly down the street. And
he never dreamed that, less than forty feet away from him, a group of
mischievous boys were about to commit an act of vandalism unlicensed
and unwarranted even by the rules and customs of Hallowe’en. Removing
the cobbler’s sign had been taking sufficiently daring liberties with
the property of other people, and fastening it to Mr. Barriscale’s
gate-post had been hardly a meritorious invasion of the rights of
private persons, even though it had all been done by virtue of the
license assumed to be granted to Hallowe’en revelers. But what was now
contemplated went far beyond the limit of harmless mischief, and the
project, if carried to completion, would become not only a violation of
law, but of good manners and good morals as well. Yet Hal was the only
one of the company who appeared to look upon it in this light. And
when the sound of passing footsteps had died away in the distance, and
bodies were raised from the grass, he again protested.

“We’re getting in too deep,” he whispered. “It isn’t right. It isn’t
fair. It’s carrying the thing too far.”

“We won’t carry it far,” replied Slicker. “Just up street a ways an’
drop it on somebody’s porch.”

“You know what I mean,” insisted Hal. “I’m ready for fun, or mischief
either, up to a certain limit. But this is going beyond the limit.”

“Aw! you’re a piker! If you don’t like what we’re goin’ to do, you can
take a sneak an’ go home. Come on, fellows! Who’s game?”

From the response it appeared that every one in the crowd was game
except Hal. His judgment had been overruled and he made no further
objection. But he did not “take a sneak.”

“All right!” he said. “If you fellows think it’s decent, and think you
can get away with it, I’ll go along; but I’m not crazy about the job, I
can tell you.”

That settled it. There was no other protest, and the process of removal
began at once. Two boys, one at each end, lifted the statue carefully
from its resting place. But then an accident happened. Slicker, leaning
too far toward the fountain in his effort at assistance, tumbled
inadvertently into the basin.

The boys, frightened at the mishap, lowered their burden to the grass,
dropped on their knees, and awaited developments. It was possible that
the noise of the splash might arouse the inmates of the house and
lead to an investigation. Wet to his waist the victim of misplaced
confidence in his own ability to preserve his balance, dragged himself
slowly up across the rim of the basin, and joined his drooping comrades
on the lawn. No one laughed. It was too serious a moment. Slicker
himself was the first to speak.

“Gee!” he whispered through his chattering teeth, “that water’s cold.”

Then Hal had his innings.

“You’re the guy,” he said, “that better take a sneak for home, and get
some dry duds on.”

“Not on your life,” was the reply. “I ain’t no sugar lump. A drop o’
water won’t hurt me. I’m goin’ to stay by till we land this stone cupid
on somebody’s porch.”

“Whose porch?” asked Little Dusty.

“Well, I’ll s-s-say, Jim Perry’s. That’s only two or three blocks away,
and we ain’t done nothin’ for J-J-Jim yet to-night.”

“That’s right! We mustn’t forget Jim.”

Evidently the noise of Slicker’s misadventure had aroused no one.
Absolute silence still reigned in and about the Barriscale mansion. The
boys got to their feet, again lifted the marble figure, and two of
them bore it silently to the street and turned up the walk.

They passed the electric light at the corner in safety, went one more
block, and then turned into a side street. It was very dark here. From
two or three upper windows there were gleams of faint light, otherwise
the darkness was impenetrable. Jim Perry lived midway of this block,
but to locate his house in this kind of a night was next to impossible.
It was not until one of the members of the group, known as Billy,
whose home was just across the street, had gone back to the corner
and counted the houses, that the boys felt at all sure of their exact
location. But, having satisfied themselves that their selection of a
resting-place for the “stone cupid” was fully justified, they lost no
time in carrying their burden up the steps and depositing it on the
Perry porch, much to the relief of Hal, who had been in constant fear
lest some accident should happen to it.

And, having thus performed their duties and finished their night’s
adventures, the Hallowe’en marauders decided to disband and seek their
respective homes.

“Remember,” warned Slicker, “mum’s the word. No fellow’s got a right to
squeal if they skin him alive.”

“I won’t peach,” replied one. “Nor I,” “Nor I,” added others. But Hal
said:

“I’ll tell on myself if I want to, but wild horses won’t drag out of me
anything about the rest of you.”

“All right! That’s fair!”

So, by ones and twos, they slipped away into the thick mist, leaving
the marble figure of a kneeling boy reposing quietly on Jim Perry’s
front porch, and peering silently into a crack in the floor, as he had
peered for many years at his own image mirrored in the water of the
fountain on the Barriscale lawn.

A half hour later another group of boys, marching up the main residence
street of the city, reached the mansion of Benjamin Barriscale. And
in this group was Benjamin Barriscale, Jr. They were returning from
an evening of Hallowe’en adventures not dissimilar to the adventures
of the company that had preceded them. At the entrance to the grounds
they stopped to say good-night to Ben, for they too had finished their
evening of sport and were on their way home.

In the mist and darkness no one saw the sign with which the big
gate-post at the left had been ornamented. That work of skill and art
was destined not to be discovered until the light of morning should
disclose its beauty and appropriateness to the passer-by.

The splashing of the water in the fountain on the lawn came musically
to the ears of the tired strollers, but no one of them dreamed that
the kneeling water-sprite was no longer peering from the rim of the
basin into the liquid depth beneath him.

“Well, boys,” said Ben, “I want the rest of you to do just as I’m going
to do.”

A shrill voice piped up:

“Do you know what you’re goin’ to do?”

“Sure I do,” replied Ben; “I’m going up to the house and turn in so
quick you can’t see me do it.”

“No, you’re not. You’re goin’ with us.”

“Where?”

“Well, you see, we haven’t taken anything off of Jim Perry’s porch yet.
We always do that, every Hallowe’en, and if we pass him by this year
he’d feel hurt.”

“That’s right!” added another boy. “We’ve got to do it. He’d never get
over it if we didn’t. Come on!”

But Ben hung back. “I’m too tired,” he said. “You go ahead and swipe
what you want to, but count me out.”

Again the shrill, piping voice broke in:

“Oh, don’t spoil the fun, Ben. Don’t be a piker. You’re the captain of
the crew. You’ve got to go along to give orders. Come on!”

Thus adjured, Ben’s resolution wavered. He was fond of being considered
the leader of his group. He felt that he was born to command.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll go this once if you insist on it. But this
is the last prank for to-night, you understand.”

“Sure we understand.”

Silently the boys left the stately entrance to the Barriscale mansion
and moved up the street and around the corner, following unwittingly in
the footsteps of those boys who had taken the same journey so short a
time before.

This group also found it difficult to locate the Perry house in the
thick mist and deep darkness that shrouded the side street. But, having
at last satisfied themselves that they were on the right spot, they
selected two of their number to mount the porch and seek for booty
while the rest stood guard below.

The reconnoitering squad at once entered upon the performance of the
duties assigned to them, but it was no easy task to find their way
about in the pitch darkness that surrounded the Perry house.

Those who were waiting on the pavement heard a noise as of some one
stumbling, and a smothered exclamation of surprise.

“What’s the matter?” asked Ben, mounting half-way up the steps leading
to the porch. “What is it?”

“Don’t know,” was the whispered reply. “Feels like stone. Heavy as the
dickens!”

“Can you lift it?”

“Sure! The two of us have it now.”

“Then bring it along.”

Bearing the burden between them, and slowly feeling their way, the
committee of search descended to the sidewalk and halted.

“What is it, anyway?” asked one. “Let’s feel of it,” said another.

So the investigation began, but it resulted in no definite knowledge
concerning the character of the prize. Eyes were of course useless, and
fingers were of little less avail.

“It feels something like the boy on the rim of our fountain basin,”
said Ben after passing his hand carefully over the object from end to
end. “But of course it can’t be that. Anyway, now we’ve got it what are
we going to do with it?”

“Carry it to Hal McCormack’s and leave it on his porch,” said the boy
with the shrill voice. “Let him find out what it is, an’ whose it is,
an’ carry it home to-morrow morning. I bet he’s had plenty of fun
to-night at somebody else’s expense; now let’s have a little fun at his
expense.”

“Well, don’t waste time,” cautioned Ben. “If you’re going to take it to
McCormack’s, come along!”

But the boy who was bearing the heavy end of the burden hesitated.

“Say,” he whispered, “can’t one o’ you fellows take my end? I barked my
shin on the blamed thing up there, and it hurts.”

“Sure!” replied Ben. “Here; let me have it. Hurry up!”

But, in attempting to relieve his comrade, Ben failed to make his grasp
secure; the end of the marble figure slipped from his hands, fell to
the pavement, and was broken off almost midway of the statue, the
remaining portion still secure in the grip of a boy named Bob.

The crash of the fall broke ominously into the stillness of the
deserted street. For the first time that night the boys were really
frightened.

“The jig’s up!” whispered one of them, as the fog-muffled echoes died
away.

“Let’s leave the thing here on the walk an’ skedaddle,” said another.

“Let’s take it back on the porch,” said a third.

“No! I tell you, no!” exclaimed Ben. “We can’t leave it here now. We’ve
got to take it away.”

He stooped and picked up the fragment nearest to him as he spoke. “Can
you handle that other end alone, Bob?” he asked. “I’ve got this one;
come on!”

Leading the way, he started off into the darkness, and his fellows
followed him. There was little attempt now to soften their footsteps.
It was primarily a question of haste.

At the corner of the street the boy with the shrill voice asked where
they were going.

“To Hal McCormack’s, you simpleton!” answered Ben impatiently. “Isn’t
that where you said you wanted to go?”

“Yes.”

“Then come along, and don’t stop to ask fool questions.”

The accident, and the thought of its possible consequences, had
irritated him beyond measure, though he alone had been responsible for
the breaking of the marble.

So to Hal McCormack’s house, three blocks away, they went. No words
were spoken. The matter had become too serious. The two boys carrying
the separated fragments mounted the steps cautiously and deposited
their several burdens on the porch floor.

“Now,” said Ben, as he retraced his steps to the sidewalk, “beat it!”

They did not wait upon the order of their going, but went at once.

Up-stairs, in bed, Hal faintly heard a shuffling, scraping noise on the
porch beneath his room, then, overcome by weariness, indifferent to all
noises from whatever source they might proceed, he fell asleep.




CHAPTER II


When Hal McCormack came down to breakfast on the morning following
Hallowe’en, he found that the other members of the family had almost
completed their morning meal. But it was apparent, from the atmosphere
surrounding the table, that something had gone wrong. His mother looked
worried, his young sisters looked curious, and his father, who was
captain of the local company of the National Guard, had a stern and
military air.

“Halpert,” said Captain McCormack, “before you take your seat at the
table you will please go to the front porch and see what is there.”

The request was such an unusual one that Hal stood for a moment
wondering and motionless. But only for a moment. He had been accustomed
from childhood to give ready obedience to his father’s commands, and,
without comment or question, he obeyed now. Two minutes later he again
entered the dining-room.

“Well,” questioned his father, “what did you find there?”

“Why,” stammered the boy, “I found that marble statue; and it’s broken
in two.”

“So I discovered. Who broke it?”

“Honest, father, I don’t know. We didn’t. It was perfectly all right
when we left it.”

“Where did you leave it?”

“On Jim Perry’s porch.”

“When?”

“I guess it was about twelve o’clock.”

“And where did you get it?”

“From Mr. Barriscale’s lawn.”

“I thought as much. I recognized it. Who helped you take it?”

For the first time Hal hesitated. Hitherto his answers had been prompt
and frank. But he could not betray his companions. He had promised not
to do so. He would not have done so if he had not promised.

“Well?” His father was looking at him sternly and questioningly. He
knew that he must make some reply.

“Well,” he said, “you see, it’s this way. We all promised not to peach
on each other. And, if you’d just as soon, I’d rather not tell.”

“As you like about that. I’ll not press the question. But, in that
event, I take it that you are ready, yourself, to assume full
responsibility for the damage that has been done to the statue.”

“But, father, we didn’t break it. We didn’t bring it here.”

“That may be. But you removed it from Mr. Barriscale’s lawn. That was
the primary offense. If you had not carried it away in the first place
it would not have been broken.”

“I suppose not.”

“Of course not. And since you choose to assume full responsibility for
the damage, you must make it right with Mr. Barriscale.”

“I’d pay him in a minute but I haven’t any money, except what little
I’ve got in the bank.”

“Then you must earn it; provided he is willing to make a cash
settlement.”

At this point Hal’s mother broke into the conversation.

“I just knew something was going to happen,” she wailed, “when you went
out with those rough boys last night. Why couldn’t you have stayed at
home; or else gone with Emily and Lucy?”

“Oh, we didn’t want any boys with us!” exclaimed Emily. “We just
dressed up in old clothes and false faces, and went around visiting. We
had the best time, and Mrs. Grimstone gave us doughnuts and----”

“Emily, be still!” admonished Mrs. McCormack. “You wouldn’t speak so
lightly of your pleasures if you understood what a terrible misfortune
has fallen on us.”

Mr. McCormack had been smiling grimly at the interruption, but Hal had
paid little attention to it. He was considering the course that lay
before him.

“I suppose,” he said, “I’ll have to take it back home.”

“If you refer to the statue,” replied Mr. McCormack, “I think
undoubtedly that is the best course to pursue.”

“And what else shall I do?”

“Well, you must go to see Mr. Barriscale, and acknowledge your offense,
and submit to whatever penalty he imposes on you.”

At the grim possibilities of such an interview Hal became really
frightened. The idea of having to face Mr. Barriscale personally had
not before occurred to him. He was willing to take the broken statuary
home, and to pay for the damage done, in any way that was possible
to him; but to present himself as an offender before the stern and
autocratic Mr. Barriscale, that was a part of his punishment the
thought of which struck terror to his heart. For the first time in his
life the spirit of cowardice entered into his soul.

“I can’t face Mr. Barriscale, father,” he said. “He’s too severe. He’d
frighten me to death.”

Captain McCormack straightened up in his chair and looked his son in
the eyes.

“I’ve heard you say,” he replied, “that when you reach the proper age
you want to be a member of my company of the National Guard. Is that
still true?”

“Why, yes; I think I’d like to be a soldier.”

“Well, a soldier must never be afraid to face whatever duty lies before
him. His own comfort and safety must be a second consideration. He must
always be brave enough to be fair and honorable. If he is not he has no
business to be a soldier.”

Hal had risen from the table, and he stood for a moment in serious
thought. At last he said simply:

“I will go to see Mr. Barriscale.”

That closed the incident so far as Captain McCormack was concerned.
But Hal’s mother was not so easily pacified. She continued alternately
to pity and to blame her boy, and to make dire predictions of what
was likely to happen to him when he should come in contact with Mr.
Barriscale. And as for Hal’s young sisters, they would not be appeased
until they had drawn from him a full recital of the escapade of
Hallowe’en. But he did not permit either his mother’s lamentations
or the volubility of his sisters to impede the carrying out of his
programme. As it was Saturday morning and there was no school he was
able to set about at once the performance of his most unwelcome task.
He resurrected a boy’s express wagon that he had used with delight a
few years back, loaded the fragments of broken statuary carefully into
it, covered them discreetly with a piece of burlap, and started out on
his journey to the Barriscale mansion.

Two blocks from home he ran unexpectedly into Slicker, who stood for a
moment gazing at him and his outfit in wild-eyed astonishment.

“What you got there?” asked Slicker.

“Stolen goods,” replied Hal sententiously.

“What you mean stolen goods? It ain’t the stone cupid, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Where you takin’ him?”

“Back home.”

“Perry make you take it back?”

“No.”

“Who did then?”

“My father.”

“How’d he come to know about it? Who peached?”

Hal decided to throw off his reserve and explain.

“Well, you see, after we left the thing on Perry’s porch some other
crowd must have come along and picked it up and brought it to our
house. That wouldn’t have been so bad, but those fellows, whoever they
were, broke it.”

“Gee whiz! Is it bust bad?”

“Yes. Broke in two. Ruined.”

“That’s a crime! Let’s see!”

Slicker lifted the burlap carefully and inspected the broken image.

“It’s done for,” he said as he replaced the covering. “What you takin’
it back for? It ain’t no good now.”

“My father thought I’d better.”

“What you goin’ to do about it?”

“I’ve got to stand the damage.”

“Why, you didn’t break it.”

“I know. But I helped carry it off; and if it hadn’t been carried off
it wouldn’t have been broken.”

“I guess that’s right, too. But you didn’t snitch it alone. What about
the rest of us?”

“I didn’t give any of you away. I shouldered the whole job.”

Slicker stood for a moment in deep contemplation. Finally he said:

“That’s mighty decent, Hal; and you’re a regular brick. But it don’t go
down with me. We’ll cut the rest of the fellows out and you and me’ll
share the consekences. We’ll go fifty-fifty on it.”

“No; you don’t have to do that, Slicker.”

“I know I don’t; but I’m goin’ to. It’s settled. Come on!”

He took hold of one side of the cross-piece of the handle of the wagon
and motioned to his companion to take hold of the other side. Hal knew
that when Slicker had made up his mind to do a thing there was no
turning him. So he acquiesced in the plan. And together the two boys
dragged their unlovely load toward its destination.

Two blocks farther on they met Hal’s aunt, Miss Sarah Halpert, a lady
approaching middle age, of decided opinions about persons and things,
prominent in the civic and social life of the city, keen in intellect,
quick in resourcefulness.

Hal would not, at this moment, have willingly come in contact with her.
When he saw her approaching he looked about for some means of escape,
but they were in the middle of a block, and the meeting was inevitable.

“What’s all this about?” she inquired as she came up to them. “Are you
boys returning stolen goods this morning?”

“That’s about it, Aunt Sarah,” replied Hal.

“Well,” she continued, “if I’d caught the little rascals that left a
load of turnips in my front yard last night, they’d have thought the
day of judgment had come, sure enough. Who’s this other boy? What’s
your name, young man?” Then, before the “other boy” could reply, she
answered her own question. “Oh, you’re Slicker. You’re the boy that
fastened a tick-tack on Jerry Minahan’s window, aren’t you?”

Slicker colored a little and acknowledged that he had committed the
offense named.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” she said. But her eyes twinkled
so as she spoke that Slicker knew she was not angry with him.

“We’re in a hurry,” explained Hal. “We’ve got to be going.”

He started on, dragging both the wagon and his team-mate in his haste
to escape. But she held up a warning hand.

“None of that!” she exclaimed. “I know better. I want to know what
you’ve got there, where you got it, and where you’re taking it.”

Hal knew, from long experience, that evasion was out of the question,
and that it would be utterly useless to deny her request. So, with
Slicker nodding occasional confirmation, he gave her the whole story.
She did not interrupt him during the recital. But when he had finished,
she said:

“Well, I don’t envy you your job. I guess I’m the only person in town
who isn’t afraid of Benjamin Barriscale. I don’t know what he’ll do to
you, but, whatever it is, you’ll richly deserve it, both of you. I hope
he’ll give it to you, good and plenty. The idea of stealing a thing
like that! What put it into your crazy heads, anyway?”

“It was my idea, Miss Halpert,” responded Slicker. “Hal, he didn’t want
to do it. I got him into this trouble. I’m goin’ to help him out if I
can.”

“Good boy!” she replied. “That’s the stuff! You’ve both got the making
of men in you, once you get over this foolish age. Now trot along and
do your duty. And you, Hal, let me know this afternoon how it comes
out.”

She started on, and the boys bent again to their task; but before she
had gone many steps she turned and called:

“Hal! come here a minute. I want to speak to you.”

When the boy reached her side she asked:

“Have you got any money?”

“Just a few dollars in the savings bank,” replied Hal.

“My case exactly. Maybe Mr. Barriscale will want money damages. If he
does, don’t you ask your father for the cash, nor your mother. Do you
hear me? I won’t give you the money. Don’t dream it! But I guess I can
fix it up so you can earn some. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Aunt Sarah, and thank you; but I wouldn’t----”

“Yes, you would. You do as I tell you. Now go on about your business.”

She turned and swept up the street, and Hal and Slicker again took up
the line of march toward the Barriscale mansion. Avoiding the busy
streets, they went a roundabout way, until, at last, they reached their
destination. There they lifted the broken marble from the wagon and,
each boy carrying his portion, they deposited it on its base at the
rim of the fountain from which it had been so rudely removed the night
before.

No one about the premises intercepted or interfered with them.
Apparently no one saw them save one passer-by who stopped for a moment
to watch them curiously, and then, with a quizzical smile on his face,
went on about his business.

“Well,” said Slicker, when they had returned safely to the sidewalk,
“what’s the next move?”

“The next move,” replied Hal, “is to face Mr. Barriscale.”

“Gee whiz! That’s a tough one.”

“I know it’s tough. But it’s got to be done.”

“Sure it has. It’s the only proper thing to do. Might as well order
harps for the glory land, though. There won’t be enough left of us to
make a decent dish-rag of when he gets through with us. Well, come
along!”

“But you’re not going.”

“Sure I’m going.”

“No, you’re not. I won’t stand for it. I won’t take any other boy with
me on this errand. If I’m alone I can face the music. If you go along
it’ll take the starch right out of me.”

“Rats! I’ve got to take my share.”

“I know how you feel. But you can help more by staying away. I’ve made
up my mind.”

For a moment Slicker looked earnestly at his companion to discover if
possible whether he really meant what he was saying, and when he found
that he did, he made no further effort to accompany him.

“All right!” he said. “You’re the judge and jury. But don’t forget that
I wanted to go.”

“I won’t forget it. There isn’t another boy in the crowd would make
that offer. But I’m going alone.”

“Well, I’ll take the buggy home anyway.”

Slicker started back up the hill dragging the express wagon after him,
and Hal faced toward the central city to meet whatever fate awaited him
there.

The rain of the night before had not yet quite ceased, the skies were
lowering, and mist still lay heavily on the town. Hal noticed as he
came into the business portion of the city that in many of the stores
and offices lights were burning to dispel the gloom. This was true
also at the Barriscale plant. A hundred windows of the big buildings
that faced the plaza were illuminated from within. But in Hal’s mind
the lights gave no cheerful aspect to the scene. They were like so
many eyes trying to stare him out of countenance. It required a new
mustering of courage to mount the steps that led to the office door
and make his entrance there. The clerk who approached him to inquire
as to the nature of his business said that Mr. Barriscale had not
yet arrived. Hal turned away with a sense of temporary relief, left
the building, crossed the plaza, and went back toward the central
city. Just as he reached the corner of the main street he saw Mr.
Barriscale’s car turn and go down toward the factory. It pulled up in
front of the big building, and the manufacturer descended from it and
entered his office. But Hal did not immediately return. He reasoned
that the head of the company would be very busy for a little while,
getting his day’s work started, and there would be a better chance to
see him later.

It was a full half-hour afterward that he returned to the mills.
The same clerk who had met him on his first visit told him that the
president of the company was now in and asked him to give his name and
to state the nature of his business.

“I am Halpert McCormack,” was the reply. But his voice was so low
and seemed so strangely weak that the young man was not able to hear
it plainly above the hum of voices in the room, the clicking of
typewriters, and the muffled roar of distant machinery.

“I am Halpert McCormack,” repeated the boy. “I want to see Mr.
Barriscale about taking away the marble figure from his fountain last
night.”

“Very well, wait here.”

The clerk disappeared through a door marked “Private Office,” and
reappeared in a few moments and requested Hal to enter. So the midnight
marauder found himself standing, cap in hand, in the presence of the
great man of the city. Mr. Barriscale was seated at a table in the
center of the room, and seemed to be absorbed in the scrutiny of a
document he was holding in both hands. When he finally laid the paper
down and looked at his visitor it was with no friendly gaze.

“Well,” he inquired brusquely, “what’s your errand?”

If the anticipation of this meeting had filled Hal’s heart with
foreboding, the reality was no less fear-compelling. Mr. Barriscale’s
presence was imposing, his manner was forbidding. Stern-eyed,
square-jawed, formidable in every aspect, he bore the appearance of a
man ready to crush any one who opposed his wish or refused to bend to
his will. But when Hal replied his voice was firm and his speech was
without hesitation.

“I’m the boy,” he said, “who took the marble image away from your
fountain last night, and it got broke, and I carried it back there this
morning.”

Mr. Barriscale’s frown deepened, his heavy, clipped moustache bristled
perceptibly, and a slight flush overspread his face. Evidently the
subject was not an agreeable one to him.

“Who told you to come here?” he asked abruptly.

“My father,” replied Hal.

“Who is your father?”

“Captain Lawrence McCormack; and my name is Halpert McCormack.”

“Your father is a respectable citizen. How comes it that he has a
night-prowler for a son?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Who was with you on this job?”

“Some boy friends. I’d rather not tell their names. I want to be
responsible for the whole thing myself.”

“I see. Shielding your accomplices in crime. A very mistaken idea of
magnanimity. But if you want to bear the brunt of this thing I’ll
accommodate you.”

The flush in the big man’s face grew deeper, and there was a
perceptible note of anger in his voice. The outlook was indeed menacing.

“I want to bear the brunt of it,” replied Hal.

“Very well!” Mr. Barriscale picked up a paper-knife and tapped on the
table with it as he spoke, apparently for the purpose of emphasizing
his words. “You admit that you entered my lawn under cover of darkness,
without permission, for the purpose of removing my property?”

“Yes, sir!”

“And that you did take the marble figure from my fountain and carry it
away and break it?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Are you aware that you have committed a crime?”

“I didn’t know it was a crime, sir. I knew it was wrong, but we just
did it for fun.”

“Then let me enlighten you, young man. In trespassing on my lawn
with evil intent you committed a misdemeanor, punishable by fine and
imprisonment. In breaking my statuary you are guilty of malicious
mischief, also punishable by fine and imprisonment. In taking my
property and carrying it away you are guilty of the crime of larceny
and can be sent to state’s prison for a term of years. What do you
think of the situation?”

“I had not thought of it that way, sir.”

Hal’s voice began to show weakness, his face paled a little, and his
knees began to tremble at this recital of his offenses against the law,
and the possible punishment for them.

“Well,” responded the big man in a voice plainly indicative of
increasing anger, “you can think of it that way now. And perhaps you
will also be willing to tell me now who your confederates in crime
were.” Mr. Barriscale tapped the table more vigorously with his
paper-knife, straightened up in his chair, and became peremptory in his
anger. “I will find out,” he continued. “They shall all be treated as
they deserve to be, every one of them. You say the statue was broken.
Who broke it?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Mr. Barriscale half rose from his chair, his face purple with passion.

“Don’t evade my question, sir,” he cried. “I’ll have none of it! Answer
me! Who broke the marble?”

“I did.”

It was not Hal who spoke this time. The voice in reply came from a
boy sitting at a desk in a far corner of the room. In his trepidation
and excitement Hal had not before noticed him. The boy rose from his
chair as he spoke and advanced toward the central figures in the
conversation. It was Ben Barriscale, Jr. Heretofore there had been only
a casual acquaintance between the two boys. They attended the same high
school, but they were not in the same class, had seen little of each
other, and had had no companionship.

It was evident that Mr. Barriscale was no less surprised at the
interruption than was Hal himself. He sank back in his chair and the
color went suddenly from his face.

“You!” he exclaimed; “you broke it? Were you with this crowd of
midnight marauders?”

“No,” was Ben’s reply. “I wasn’t. But I was with another crowd, and we
were doing the same things. We found the statue on Jim Perry’s porch.
It was very dark and I didn’t know what it was. We took it over to
McCormack’s, and I let it fall and it broke. I didn’t know till this
morning that it was our fountain figure.”

Mr. Barriscale’s anger seemed suddenly to have cooled. There was no
sharpness or severity in his voice when he spoke again, only a note of
reproof.

“That you didn’t know whose property it was,” he said, “is no excuse
for your conduct. To remove things from Mr. Perry’s porch is as
reprehensible as it is to remove things from my lawn. I can’t see but
that you are both equally guilty.”

“I think so myself, father,” replied Ben. “And I’m ready to share any
punishment that Hal gets.”

Benjamin Barriscale, Sr., looked slowly from one boy to the other,
and it was evident that he was in a quandary. For a full minute he
was silent; but he resumed the nervous tapping on the table with his
paper-knife. Finally he turned to Hal and asked:

“Where is the statue now?”

“Back on your fountain, sir,” was the reply.

“You say it’s broken?”

“Yes, sir. Broken in two.”

“Then it’s beyond repair, and you two boys shall pay for it.”

He spoke firmly still, but quietly. He said nothing more about crimes,
nor about penalties, nor about the state’s prison. The question now
appeared to be simply one of compensation.

“That piece of marble,” he continued, after a moment of consideration,
“was of considerable value.”

He turned suddenly to Hal. “Have you any money?” he asked.

“No,” replied the boy; “except a few dollars in the savings bank.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter. On second thought I’ll not permit you to pay
me money. Nor will I permit your father to pay for your misdeeds. You
boys must work out your punishment. It will be no easy job. I intend
that before you finish it you shall appreciate the sacredness of the
rights that people have in their own property.”

Again, for a minute, he was silent while the two boys stood
apprehensively awaiting his decision. Then he turned again suddenly to
Hal.

“Your father,” he said, “is captain of the local company of state
militia?”

“Yes, sir,” was the reply, “he is.”

“And it is a very honorable and responsible position. As president of
the local Armory Board engaged in the erection of the new armory, I
have come into frequent contact with him, and I have great respect for
his ability, and for his willingness to be guided in this important
military undertaking by men of greater business experience than his,
and familiar with large affairs. I am sure he will approve of the
sentence I am about to impose on you.”

He spoke as though he were a judge sitting in the criminal courts,
about to impose sentence on a convicted prisoner.

“Ben,” he continued, turning to his son, “are you ready to share in the
punishment I propose to provide for this young man?”

“I’m ready, father.” The boy answered without hesitation, and with
apparent frankness.

“Very well!”

Mr. Barriscale pressed a button under the edge of his table, and a
young woman entered the room with pencil and pad in her hand.

“Miss Lawranson,” he said, “you will please take dictation.”

She seated herself at the opposite side of the table from him, and,
after a moment of consideration, he dictated the following letter:

    “JAMES MCCRAE,
    _Superintendent of Construction of the State Armory,
    Fairweather, Pa._

    “_Dear Sir_:

    “You will do me a favor by employing two boys, Halpert McCormack
    and Benjamin Barriscale, Jr., at such laborious tasks as they
    are fitted to perform in and about the State Armory. Their hours
    will be from 7 to 8:45 in the morning, and from 4:15 to 6 in the
    afternoon, with a full day on Saturdays. You will please keep
    them at such labor until their combined wages, at the rate of
    one dollar each per day, and at the rate of two dollars per
    day for Saturdays, shall amount to the sum of sixty dollars,
    at which time you will kindly make a report to me, accompanied
    by the appropriate extracts from your time-sheets, and I will
    arrange, through the proper channels, for their compensation.
    They will report to you for service on Monday morning of the
    coming week.

    “Very truly yours,
    BENJ. BARRISCALE,
    _President of the local Armory Board_.”

Mr. Barriscale leaned back in his chair with a look of self-satisfaction
on his face. He faced each boy in turn, and asked:

“Are you content?”

And, when both boys had answered him in the affirmative, he said:

“Very well! Ben, you may return to your desk. McCormack, you may be
excused.”

Young Barriscale resumed his former position at the far side of the
room, the great ironmaster plunged again into the mass of papers on
his table, and Hal, after a moment of hesitation, bowed and turned
away. He left the building, crossed the plaza, and turned up the side
street toward the city’s main thoroughfare. The ordeal had been passed,
the punishment had been defined, but he did not quite know whether to
congratulate himself on the lightness of his sentence or to rebel at
the humiliation it might impose on him. One thing in connection with
the incident was pleasant to think of, and that was young Ben’s frank
admission of his participation in the offense, and his willingness to
share the punishment. It stamped him as a boy of character, even though
he had been rated as something of a snob. Moreover, it was quite a
relief to know that there would be no money for Captain McCormack to
pay, even temporarily. Besides, there was to be no court proceeding,
no criminal conviction, no term in the state’s prison. Perhaps that
was due to Mr. Barriscale’s change of heart after he learned that his
son was a participant in the mischief. Hal did not quite know. At any
rate it was not so bad as it might have been, although he still had
an uneasy feeling that his offense had been exaggerated, that he might
find his punishment to be unduly severe, and that he had been saved
from deeper distress and humiliation only by a fortunate accident.

When Hal announced at the dinner table that day that he had seen Mr.
Barriscale, and when he had stated the nature of the punishment he was
to undergo, he noticed a grim smile on the face of his father. But,
beyond a passing comment on the fairness of Ben and on the equality of
the sentence as between the two boys, Captain McCormack said little.
Whatever his thoughts or opinions were on the subject he kept them
judiciously to himself. He made some facetious remark, indeed, about
the necessity for having early breakfasts thereafter; but, so far as
the deeper aspects of the case were concerned, it was apparent that he
had decided to let his son work the matter out for himself.

It was not so with Hal’s mother, however. She was emphatic in her
protests against the severity and humiliation of his punishment. She
could not see why a boy’s prank should be treated so seriously, even
though it had ended in an unfortunate accident. She feared that early
breakfasts would ruin her son’s digestion, and that a month of hard
labor with no opportunity for play would result in his becoming a
confirmed invalid. Her lamentations, however, did not greatly affect
Hal’s composure. She had always loved and petted him and tried to
shield him from the rough places in life, and it was but natural that
she should take a somewhat exaggerated and pessimistic view of the
present situation.

On the following Monday morning, at ten minutes before seven, Hal
presented himself at the armory, ready for work. Ben Barriscale was
already there, but Superintendent McCrae had not yet arrived. The
building was practically completed and it was the interior finishing
that was now, for the most part, occupying the attention of the workmen.

As Hal entered the large drill-hall he saw Ben standing on the farther
side of it, and crossed over to meet him. He greeted him pleasantly,
but the ironmaster’s son was not responsive, and seemed to be in
anything but a cheerful mood.

“Well,” asked Hal in an effort to be companionable, “what do you
suppose they’ll put us at?”

“I don’t know,” was the blunt reply. “And I don’t care much. Whatever
the job is I’m sick of it already.”

Hal tried to be encouraging. “That isn’t the way to look at it,” he
protested. “We’re into it, we’ve got to make the best of it. Maybe we
can find a little sport in it after all. Let’s try.”

“You’re welcome to work like a common laborer if you want to, and get
what fun out of it you can. I don’t fancy the prospect.”

Ben turned away and started to cross the hall alone. But he evidently
changed his mind, for he wheeled around and came back to where Hal was
standing.

“Say,” he asked abruptly, “was that your gang that put the sign on our
gate-post Hallowe’en?”

“You mean the sign ‘Puppies for sale’?”

“That’s what I mean.”

“Yes; that was our crowd.”

“Was it you that wrote on that sign: ‘Young Ben is the only puppy
left’?”

“No; I didn’t write it.”

“Who did write it?”

“I don’t choose to tell.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not. Would you give another fellow away if you were in my
place?”

“I would if he did as mean and contemptible a trick as that.”

“I don’t admit that it was mean and contemptible.”

“Then you’re ready to stand for it, are you?”

The voices of the two boys in controversy had attracted the attention
of some workmen who were standing near, awaiting the blowing of the
seven o’clock gong, and they moved over to the scene of the quarrel.

“The stout one’s Mr. Barriscale’s son,” said one of the men, “and the
other one is Captain McCormack’s boy. I know ’em both.”

“Well,” was the response, “they’re both blue-bloods; let ’em fight it
out, an’ see who’s the best fellow.”

By this time both boys were too excited to notice the gathering men
or to hear their comments. Ben’s voice had grown louder as his anger
increased, his face was deeply flushed, and his eyes had a dangerous
look in them.

“I’m ready,” replied Hal, “to stand for anything my crowd did that
night. That’s why I’m the only one of ’em here this morning.”

“Then I’ll make you sorry you’re here.”

In a fit of uncontrollable passion Ben made a blind lunge at his
companion in punishment, and by the very violence and suddenness of the
onset he almost swept him off his feet. But Hal’s lightness and agility
stood him in good stead, and, after yielding for a moment, he braced
himself for the contest and held his ground. He was the taller of the
two boys, the more athletic and the more agile. But Ben’s greater
weight and stockiness gave him the advantage in the first onrush, and,
had he been able skilfully to follow up the attack, his quick victory
would have been a foregone conclusion. As it was, the combatants were
not unequally matched.

The onlookers, augmented in numbers by other workmen who had been
attracted to the scene, gathered now in the conventional ring about
the fighters. The primal instinct, only veneered by centuries of
civilization, showed itself in the avidity with which they gazed on the
combat, and in the calls and cries of encouragement they gave, each to
his individual favorite.

The boys were now struggling and writhing in each other’s arms. A full
minute they wrestled so; then came the fall. It was swift, sudden and
disastrous. The crash of it echoed through the great, empty hall. In
disentangling himself from the prone figure beneath him Ben met with no
resistance. His antagonist lay with closed eyes, limp and insensible,
on the armory floor. At this moment Superintendent McCrae came pushing
his way through the narrow ring of spectators.

“What’s all this about?” he asked. “What’s happened?”

“It’s a fight,” some one answered. “The stout fellow put the other one
to sleep.”

The superintendent turned his gaze from the swiftly paling countenance
of the boy on the floor to the hardly less colorless face of his
victorious antagonist.

“A fight, is it!” he exclaimed. “Mayhap and it’s a tragedy.”

He knelt on the floor at Hal’s side, felt of his wrists, and tore open
his collar and jacket.

“Here you, Bill!” he called, “run for some water. And you, Henry,
telephone for a doctor, and get a cab. Who the dickens are these
fellows, anyway?”

Ben began to stammer an answer, but before any intelligible words had
left his mouth the superintendent interrupted him.

“Oh, I know!” he exclaimed. “You’re Mr. Barriscale’s son, and this is
Captain McCormack’s boy. I had the letter. Here, Bill, give me the
water.”

He poured a little from the glass into his hand and dashed it into
Hal’s face, and repeated the process twice. Then he began chafing the
boy’s wrists. Some one suggested that the victim be carried to a bench
or chair.

“No,” replied McCrae. “Let him lie here. He’s better off on his back
till the doctor comes. Some one lend me a jacket, though, to put under
his head.”

In a second Ben had stripped off his coat and handed it to the
superintendent, who folded it and placed it gently under Hal’s head.

The workmen, awed by the tragic result of the fight, began melting
away, discussing as they went the possible cause of the quarrel and its
probable results. At last, with the exception of one or two foremen and
the superintendent, all the men were gone, and Ben stood, almost alone,
by the side of his victim. He was stunned and awe-stricken. He had not
dreamed that such a thing could happen.

“I didn’t mean to knock him out,” he said finally. “I wouldn’t have
hurt him like this for the world. What shall I do about it, Mr. McCrae?”

“Oh,” was the reply, “just stick around here till the doctor comes,
and he’ll tell us all what to do. It’s no’ very bad, I guess. He’s
breathin’ all right now.”

The doctor was not long in coming. His office was but two blocks away,
and the messenger who had been sent for him had made great haste. He
examined the boy carefully, but found nothing wrong except that an
area on the back of his head was already swollen and showed a marked
abrasion. There was no fracture, however.

“It’s a slight concussion,” said the doctor. “Probably struck his head
violently when he fell. He’ll come to after a little, but I guess we’d
better take him home.”

The cab was already at the armory entrance, and McCrae and the doctor,
between them, lifted the still unconscious boy and carried him to it.
The motion seemed to rouse him, and he opened his eyes and began to
mutter something about being responsible for what the crowd had done.

“You’d best go home,” said McCrae, addressing Ben. “You won’t be fit to
work this morning anyway. If we need you I’ll call you up. Oh, say;
suppose you telephone to Captain McCormack that his boy is slightly
hurt and we’re takin’ him home.”

He squeezed his big body into the cab, which the doctor had already
entered; and Hal, supported by the two men, was driven rapidly to his
father’s house.




CHAPTER III


When Ben reached home on the morning of the encounter at the armory
he found his father still at breakfast. Mr. Barriscale looked up in
surprise as his son entered the dining-room.

“What brings you back at this hour?” he inquired.

“We had a little accident up at the armory,” was the reply, “and Mr.
McCrae thought I’d better come home.”

“So? What happened?”

Ben went around to his accustomed place at the table and seated himself.

“I don’t want any more breakfast,” he said to his mother who was
already giving directions to the maid for serving him. “Why, father,
you see it was this way. A crowd of fellows put that sign up on our
gate-post Hallowe’en, about puppies for sale. You know. You saw it. It
said I was the only puppy left.”

Mr. Barriscale repressed a smile and replied:

“Yes, I saw it. What about it?”

“Well, Hal McCormack was in that crowd. I tried to get him to tell me
who wrote that on it, and he wouldn’t. He said he didn’t do it himself,
but he wouldn’t tell me who did.”

“Well?”

“He said he would take the responsibility for it; so I started in to
give him a thrashing.”

“He deserved it; I hope you gave him a good one.”

Mr. Barriscale had not yet fully recovered from the unpleasant
sensation of having been compelled to put his son on a par with a boy
of the middle-class in the matter of punishment, and he was not at all
averse to having the matter evened up in this way.

“I intended to,” replied Ben; “and we clinched, and I threw him, and
his head struck the floor pretty hard, I guess. Anyway, he was knocked
unconscious, and Mr. McCrae called the doctor and they took him home.”

Mr. Barriscale set his half-lifted cup of coffee back into the saucer
and looked serious.

“How badly was he hurt?” he inquired. “Did the doctor say?”

“No. He said there was a slight concussion of the brain, but he
couldn’t tell what it would amount to.”

Mr. Barriscale looked still more serious. “I’m afraid,” he said, “that
you’ve got yourself into trouble.”

“What shall I do about it?” inquired Ben, anxiously.

“Well, the least you can do, and probably the most at present, is to
go to the boy’s house and inquire about him, and offer apologies, and
tender your services for anything you can do.”

“I’m so sorry for his mother,” broke in Mrs. Barriscale. “She’s such a
helpless little thing.”

“That’s the trouble with going to the house,” replied Ben. “I’d hate to
meet her and have to explain. She’d never understand in the world.”

“I’ll go myself to see her,” said Mrs. Barriscale. “I think I can make
it all right with her.”

But the ironmaster, ignoring his wife’s offer, turned peremptorily to
Ben.

“You do as I tell you,” he commanded. “You go to McCormack’s house, and
to whomever meets you there you express your regret for the occurrence,
and offer your services. Go after school to-day.”

That settled it. Mr. Barriscale’s wish in his family circle was law.
No one ever pretended to dispute him, least of all his son. He did not
intend to be domineering, but he could not brook opposition to his will
or his plans, and few people, either within or without his home, had
sufficient temerity to oppose him.

At four o’clock that afternoon Ben went to Captain McCormack’s house
on his unpleasant errand. But it was not Hal’s mother who came to the
door, nor yet Hal himself, nor a maid. It was Hal’s aunt, Miss Sarah
Halpert. She knew Ben, invited him in, and followed him into the little
reception room.

“You can’t see Hal,” she said, “if that’s what you came for. He isn’t
fit to be seen. And you can’t see his mother for she’d be sure to make
a mess of it. But you can see me and say anything you like. Now go
ahead.”

“Well,” Ben replied, “there isn’t much to say, except that I’m sorry
about Hal. I didn’t intend to hurt him; not that much anyway. And if
there’s anything I can do to help out, why, I’d like to.”

“Who told you to say that?” she inquired abruptly.

“My father. He said I’d better call and express my regrets and offer my
services.”

“I thought as much. You wouldn’t have come on your own motion, would
you? Or would you?”

“Why, I don’t know; maybe not. But I’m sure it’s the right thing to do.”

“Of course it is; and you deserve credit for doing it whether you came
on your own account or because your father told you to. Now tell me;
what was the trouble between you and Hal? First let me say, though,
that he isn’t bad off at all. He’s coming out of it all right; a little
dazed and mumbly yet, but he’ll be all over it in a day or two. Now,
what led up to that fight?”

“Why, he as much as called me a puppy, and I wouldn’t stand for it,
that’s all.”

Ben threw back his shoulders and put on that determined look
characteristic of the Barriscales.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” was Miss Halpert’s quick reply. “No
self-respecting young man cares to be called a puppy. But how did he
come to call you one?”

“You see it was this way, Miss Halpert. His crowd put a sign on our
gate-post Hallowe’en, ‘Puppies for sale.’ And one of them wrote on it
to buy me because I was the only puppy left. I asked Hal who wrote it
and he wouldn’t tell me. He said he was willing to stand for whatever
any one of the bunch did.”

“Well, he was a pretty good sport, wasn’t he?”

“Yes; if you look at it that way.”

“But that’s the way to look at it, isn’t it? And when he wouldn’t tell
you, you got mad and punched him, didn’t you?”

“Not exactly, but I jumped for him.”

“Took him off his guard, didn’t you?”

“I guess so.”

“Was that fair? Was that sportsmanlike?”

“Perhaps not, if you put it that way.”

“But that’s the way to put it, isn’t it?”

“Well, if any one tries to put anything over on me I don’t stop long to
consider. I hit back.”

“Exactly! Now, look here, Ben! I want to say something to you. You’re a
pretty good sort, and I rather like you. But you pattern too much after
your father. He thinks he’s right all the time, and that every one who
doesn’t agree with him is wrong. That’s nonsense and I’ve told him so
to his face. If you want to get on you’ll have to drop that big I you
carry around with you and concede something to the other fellow. He may
be more than half right. For instance, when Hal pulls himself together,
as he will in a day or two, you tell him, as you’ve admitted to me,
that the stand he took in this matter wasn’t very far from right, and
that you were rather hasty in resenting it. He’ll meet you more than
half-way, I promise you. And you can tell him, too, that if he ever
calls you a puppy when you don’t deserve the name, you’ll smash his
face for him, and that I’ll back you up in it. There, I guess that’ll
be all for to-day. Give my love to your mother, and tell her I’m going
to call on her to-morrow.”

“Thank you, Miss Halpert, I will.”

As Ben left the house and walked down the street his mind was filled
with conflicting emotions. He had been reproved, commended and
admonished. And now, at the end of it all, he felt neither angry
nor resentful. His self-respect was not diminished, but there
seemed to have been added to his mental equipment a new sense of the
responsibilities of manhood.

When Ben reported to his father that evening the result and the details
of his visit to the McCormack home, the grim smile that occasionally
illumined Mr. Barriscale’s face spread perceptibly over it.

“And what uncomplimentary thing,” he asked, “did Miss Halpert have to
say about me this time?”

“Why, she said you thought you were always right and the other fellow
wrong; that I patterned too much after you, and that if I wanted to get
on with people I’d have to cut it out.”

A slight flush overspread Mr. Barriscale’s face, but he showed no
resentment. On the contrary his smile deepened into a perceptible
chuckle. Sarah Halpert was the only person in the city, or in any other
city for that matter, who dared to tell him unpleasant things about
himself. And, strange as it may seem, he never resented her criticism
nor opposed her will. Indeed, he seemed to appreciate her frankness and
esteem her friendship.

“Well,” he said, after a moment, “she told you to fix things up with
young McCormack, did she?”

“Yes. And she told me that if he ever called me a puppy again I should
smash his face, and she’d back me up in it.”

At this the elder Barriscale laughed outright. But Ben hastened to add:

“That is, if I didn’t deserve to be called a puppy.”

“A very wise condition. Miss Halpert usually sees both sides of every
question. You take her advice and you won’t go far wrong.”

But it was a week before Ben had an opportunity to carry out Miss
Halpert’s suggestion concerning Hal. Not that the injured boy was laid
up that long; but the shock had been considerable, and it was thought
not advisable to put him at his regular tasks too quickly, let alone
the extra task at the armory. On the following Monday morning, however,
he reported to Mr. McCrae for work. When he arrived Ben had not yet
reached the armory, but he came soon afterward.

“Now then,” said the superintendent when he had the boys together, “if
you two young fellows have any uncomplimentary things to say to one
another, I want you to say ’em now, and get through with it while I’m
here, and then forget it and be friends.”

“I’ve nothing much to say,” replied Ben, “except that I’ve been
thinking it over, and I guess Hal was more than half right about not
giving away the fellow that wrote on the sign. I’ll admit I was a
little hasty in pitching into him, but I was pretty mad about that sign
and my anger got the best of me. I’m sorry I hurt him as much as I
did, though. I didn’t intend to hurt him that much.”

“Now, Halpert,” said the superintendent, jocosely, “it’s your play. Ben
here has toed the mark pretty squarely in my opinion. The rest is up to
you.”

“Why, I’ve got nothing against him now,” replied Hal. “I don’t lay
things up anyway. I agree with him that he was too hasty about pitching
into me for not giving away the name of the other fellow; but I don’t
blame him one bit for getting mad about the sign. Anybody would have
got mad about that, and had a right to. I would have got mad myself.
So far as hurting me is concerned, I’m all right now, and I’m ready to
forget it, as Mr. McCrae says.”

“Good!” was the comment of the superintendent. “That’s fine! That
settles it. We’ll dispense with the hand-shaking. It’s seven o’clock
and I want you boys to get busy. Ben, you show your pal where that
other rake is, and both of you go to it.”

The task to which the two boys were assigned, and in which Ben had
already been engaged for a day or two, was the grading of the lawn at
the side of the armory. It was desirable that the grading should be
completed and the seeding done before freezing weather should set in,
in order that a green sward might show in the early spring. Stakes had
been set and lines stretched, low places had been filled in, and it now
remained only to shape the surface with the rake. It was not a hard
task nor a menial one; it required some skill, and an eye for long and
graceful curves, and the work was not without its satisfactions and its
compensations.

While the reconciliation between the two boys was apparently complete,
it did not lead to comradeship. They differed from each other too
radically in temperament, and in all the fundamental things on which
personal characteristics are based, to make close companionship between
them a possibility. But, during the period of their common labor,
harmony and friendship were not lacking.

It was three weeks later that the new armory was dedicated. Great
preparations had been made for the event. The Governor of the State,
the Adjutant-General, and the Major-General in command of the state
militia, were all to be there. So also were the colonel of the regiment
and his staff, and prominent guests from other cities. There was to
be a big meeting at the armory in the afternoon, and a grand military
ball in the evening. Captain McCormack was to be in charge of all the
exercises, and Mr. Barriscale, as president of the local Armory Board,
was to make a brief address at the afternoon meeting. The programme
was carried out to the letter. Hal and Ben were not without their
parts in the performance. Their familiarity with the armory, its
nooks, corners, accessories and occupants, obtained through three weeks
of employment there, made their services as errand boys and helpers
especially acceptable. And the excitement and novelty of the occasion
provided them with much entertainment.

When Benjamin Barriscale arose to make his address to an audience that
packed the great drill-hall, he felt, as he did not often feel, that
the occasion was worthy of the speaker. His efforts as chairman of the
local Armory Board had been crowned with success. The concrete result
of his energetic leadership and liberal personal gifts was before the
eyes of his townsmen. It had been too often the case that people looked
somewhat askance at his prominence in civic affairs, searching for the
personal advantage that might lie back of it. But, in this instance,
surely no one could impute to him other than the most unselfish and
disinterested motives. He did not minimize his own public-spirit
and liberality in his speech, though he gave due credit to his
fellow-workers in the enterprise. And he congratulated the State and
the State Armory Board on their foresight and vision in providing so
handsome, spacious and complete a building to crown the site purchased
and paid for by the citizens of Fairweather of whom he was proud to be
one.

“These patriotic and progressive young men of the National Guard,”
he said, “deserve the best quarters that can be provided for them.
With but little compensation save a sense of duty performed, they
stand ready at any moment not only to defend the commonwealth and the
country, but also to protect those property rights and that invested
capital without which no community can prosper. In order to make the
military arm of the State most effective, the ranks of the militia
should be recruited from young men of good education, of good family,
ready at all times to meet and quell that spirit of unrest which seeks
to overthrow the present system of organized society. I intend that
when my son arrives at an appropriate age he shall become a member of
this company, ambitious to attain to leadership in it, and I hope that
other young men of like social standing will be filled with similar
aspirations.”

When Mr. Barriscale bowed and resumed his seat on the platform, the
applause that greeted him was scant and perfunctory. Somehow he
seemed to have struck a wrong note. The audience did not appear to
be enthusiastic either over his conception of the qualifications for
membership in the Guard, or of the duty of the militia toward the
public. Nor did his declaration that his own son should eventually be a
Guardsman meet with the outburst of approval that he had expected.

But there was little time for digesting his remarks. Captain
McCormack, troubled and apprehensive over the turn affairs had taken,
made haste to introduce as the next speaker the Governor of the
commonwealth.

“I heartily agree,” began the Governor, “with the distinguished
gentleman who preceded me, in most of what he has said. But it seemed
to me that in one or two things he struck a discordant note. For
instance, in my view of it, the National Guard was not created and does
not exist for the purpose of protecting the property of the corporation
and the millionaire any more than it does for protecting the humblest
home in the commonwealth. Whenever and wherever the enemies of the
state, foreign or domestic, seek by violence to subvert its laws and
destroy the rights of its citizens, then and there the strong arm of
the Guard will be lifted to restore order and preserve peace.”

A hearty round of applause greeted the Governor’s statement. It was
evident that his audience agreed with him. He continued:

“Nor, in my opinion, should wealth, blue blood or social standing be
requisites for admission to the ranks of the Guardsmen. The young men
who belong to that organization should be democratic in principle,
patriotic in spirit, physically and mentally capable of performing the
duties required of them. Beyond that there should be no discrimination.
It will be a sad day for this great State when any social class, no
matter what, shall be in control either of its civil or its military
affairs.”

It was then that the Governor received his ovation. A tremendous and
spontaneous outburst of applause followed swiftly on his last words.
There was no mistaking the temper of the people who had listened to
him. He had said the opportune thing at the psychological moment.
Henceforth his place in the hearts of the citizens of Fairweather was
secure. But he did not stop there. He was too politic for that. He
went on to temper his rebuke by genuine commendation. The president
of the Barriscale company was lauded for his public spirit, his
liberality toward all good causes, and especially for his persistent
and successful effort to provide a fitting home in Fairweather for the
boys of the National Guard. Nor was the commendation confined to Mr.
Barriscale. The speaker gave high praise to other citizens who had
generously assisted in the enterprise, and to the public spirit which
had led people of all classes, rich and poor, old and young, to do what
lay in their power, often at great personal sacrifice, to bring to so
happy a conclusion an adventure which would stand always to the credit
of the city.

“For instance,” he said, “as I approached this building this afternoon,
I was struck by the perfect and artistic manner in which your armory
lawn has been graded. And I was told that it was largely the work of
two boys in their teens, sons of prominent citizens, who generously and
patriotically are giving their time and labor out of school hours, that
the environment of this building may be the handsomest in the state.”

“Huh!”

The exclamation came from Slicker who had been standing near the
side of the platform gazing at the speaker with wide and admiring
eyes, drinking in the power of his oratory. But the reference to the
generosity and patriotism of Slicker’s two Hallowe’en co-conspirators
had been too much for his sense of humor; hence his inadvertent
exclamation of joyous disbelief. He at once clapped both hands over his
mouth to repress any further ejaculations of surprise or amusement, but
it was too late. Most of the persons in the audience knew the story
of the grading, realized the governor’s mistake, and, after the first
gasp at Slicker’s interruption, burst into hearty laughter. The chief
executive officer of the great commonwealth was plainly nonplused.
He saw that he had fallen into some inadvertence, but what it was he
could not imagine. He turned to Captain McCormack who was sitting at
his right and inquired as to the cause of the general hilariousness.
But, when the captain rose to explain, he was so obviously confused
and embarrassed that the audience broke into renewed fits of laughter,
and the otherwise brave captain resumed his seat without having been
able to vouchsafe a sufficient explanation of the situation to the
distinguished guest. The Governor turned to Mr. Barriscale who was
sitting at his left and repeated the question. The ironmaster half rose
from his chair to reply, but, looking out over the audience and noting
the sight and sound of its ever increasing hilarity, he too sank back
into his seat silent, bewildered and dumb.

“Perhaps,” said the Governor, “if the two young gentlemen themselves
are in the audience they will come forward and enlighten us.” But the
“two young gentlemen,” who had hitherto been standing prominently near
the steps leading to the platform, scenting trouble from the moment
of Slicker’s outburst, had, by this time, silently and judiciously
disappeared.

It was at this juncture that Sarah Halpert, who had been sitting well
to the front of the auditorium, rose in her place. Immediately the
noise and laughter were hushed. If Sarah Halpert were about to say
something the audience wanted to hear it; and the audience did hear it.

“Your Excellency,” she said, addressing the Governor, “has obviously
been misinformed concerning the motives which led to the employment
of certain young men as laborers on the armory lawn. And since their
fathers appear to be unable to explain the situation, and since the
young men have vanished and cannot speak for themselves, I rise to
speak for them. I will say plainly that the motives which led them
to undertake their task were neither philanthropic, public-spirited
nor patriotic. It was purely a case of involuntary servitude. Their
labor was the penalty they were paying for having performed some
mischievous Hallowe’en pranks contrary to the rules and customs of
good society. They confessed like men, were sentenced by competent
authority, and have willingly, cheerfully and splendidly been working
out their sentence on the armory lawn. But, although they are
involuntary laborers, I wish to tell you, sir, and I know them both
well, and realize what I am saying, that they are learning something
of self-respect and discipline that a year in no other school could
possibly give them. They are learning to admire our soldiers, and
to honor our flag, and, my word for it, when they reach the proper
age and become members of the National Guard, there will be no more
public-spirited, unselfish and patriotic young men in the city of
Fairweather than Hal McCormack and Ben Barriscale.”

Sarah Halpert took her seat. Her two-minute speech had cleared the
atmosphere and had delighted the big audience. The applause that
greeted her ears was ringing and prolonged. When the Governor was again
able to gain the attention of the people he said:

“I am deeply grateful to the lady who has so clearly and eloquently
explained the situation. In the days of our Civil War the drafted men
were the bravest of our soldiers. If another war should compel us to
raise a great army to defend our rights, the American conscript will
be the pride of our country. By the same token it is no disparagement
to these two young men of Fairweather to say that they have been
involuntarily drawn into the service of their country, since they have
performed their duties skilfully, willingly and zealously, like the
good citizens that they are.”

After that there was no interruption. The programme was carried out to
the letter. And when the exercises were concluded Sarah Halpert hunted
up Hal and Ben and introduced them to the Governor.

“Here are the two conscripts,” she said. “They have come to plead for
executive clemency.”

“I will pardon them,” replied His Excellency, “on one condition; and
that is that they shall become members of the National Guard when they
reach the mature age of eighteen years.”

“If you will parol them in my custody,” responded Miss Halpert, “I will
see that they meet the condition. Oh, as to Ben, his father’ll push him
in; but as to Hal, I’ll attend to that matter myself.”

“That’s very kind of you,” replied the Governor, “but I’ll venture to
say that neither one of these young men will need urging when the time
comes.”

“I’m sure I won’t,” declared Ben.

The Governor turned to Hal. “And how about you?” he asked.

“Well,” replied the boy frankly, “I can’t say that I’m just crazy about
it. I’d be glad to be a soldier and fight for my country in time of
war. But I wouldn’t particularly care to go out on strike duty, the way
my father did, and fight men who can’t defend themselves.”

The Governor looked serious. “I see!” he said, after a moment’s pause.
“You would prefer to choose your enemy. Most of us would. But we can’t
always do that. We’ve got to take them as they come. And a domestic foe
may prove to be a greater menace to our rights and liberties than a
foreign one. However, I shall expect, some day, to see you both in the
uniform of a Guardsman.”

If Benjamin Barriscale, Sr., resented the governor’s criticism of his
impolitic speech, he did not manifest his resentment. The fact that he
invited the executive head of the state and members of his staff to
dine at the Barriscale mansion before going to the grand ball in the
evening, and that the invitation was accepted, was significant of the
continuance of friendly if not cordial relations between them. Neither
one of them could afford, unnecessarily, to antagonize the other, and
both of them knew it.

It was not until the first snow of the winter lay an inch deep on the
armory roof that Ben and Hal completed the tasks the compensation for
which paid the damages assessed by Mr. Barriscale for the destruction
of his statue.

On a Saturday morning early in December the two boys called at the
office of the manufacturing company to close accounts. The ironmaster
dictated a form of receipt to be given to each of them, and, when the
papers were duly signed, he delivered them with much formality. Then he
turned to Hal.

“What do you propose to make of yourself?” he inquired bluntly.

“I--I don’t know just what you mean,” stammered the boy.

“I mean what are you going to do for a living when you finish school?
Ben here is going into this business with me. I shall begin training
him this vacation. I intend that eventually he shall succeed me in the
management if he shows aptness and industry. What are your plans?”

“Why,” replied the boy, “father and I have rather figured it out that
when I get through high school I am to prepare for college if he can
afford to send me. And when I get through college maybe I’ll study to
be a lawyer or a doctor or a preacher. I don’t know yet.”

“Well, it’s high time you did know. A boy of your age should have his
eye fixed on a certain goal, and then bend all his energy and effort to
reach it.”

“But,” added Hal, “I know what I’d like to be. I’d like to be one of
those settlement workers, like my cousin Jim is, or something like
that, and help poor people to get their rights, and down-and-outers to
have their chance to get up again.”

“Nonsense!” Mr. Barriscale gave a grunt of displeasure. “If people
are poor, in nine cases out of ten it’s their own fault. It’s because
they’re lazy and improvident. If they’re down and out it’s the result
of indolence or dissipation. The only way to help them is to give them
hard and steady work, as we do here. This settlement business and
uplift business and all such schemes are more or less of a fad and a
farce. Work and discipline are the only remedies for deplorable social
conditions. What does your aunt, Miss Halpert, think you ought to do?”

“Well, she thinks I ought to do something to develop grit and backbone
and muscle and things like that.”

“Exactly! Miss Halpert is a woman of good judgment. We don’t agree
on some things; but she isn’t lacking in common sense, and she isn’t
afraid to express her opinion.”

Mr. Barriscale smiled grimly as he recalled some vigorous clashes with
that public-spirited and determined woman. He rather liked an opponent
who fought him openly and fairly and straight from the shoulder.

“Well,” he added, “that’s all for to-day. Ben, you remain here. I have
some work for you to do.”

As Hal went out into the street and swung along toward home he wondered
if Mr. Barriscale’s view of life was preferable to his own. And he
thought that some day, when he was older, he would like to argue it out
with him. But he never did.

His association with Ben at the armory when they were engaged in a
common task could not help but result in a certain kind of friendship.
But it did not develop at any time into comradeship, nor even into
close companionship. Through the years that slipped by, they were
friends and fellow-students, nothing more.




CHAPTER IV


It was the Fourth of July in the year 1913. In accordance with the law
of precedent and of patriotism every town and city in the United States
should have had a public celebration of the day. But Fairweather was to
have none. With the exception of a flag-raising on the plaza in front
of the Barriscale mills the national anniversary was to go entirely
unrecognized in the town so far as any public demonstration was
concerned. But the flag-raising in itself was to be no inconsiderable
event. Through the liberality of certain public-spirited citizens,
principally gentlemen belonging to the Barriscale Manufacturing
Company, a tall and beautifully tapering staff had been erected, capped
with a gilded ball, and a handsome American flag had been procured and
was ready to be drawn aloft.

It was a rare July day. The air was fresh and clear, the sky was
cloudless, the heat was not oppressive.

The exercises were to take place at three o’clock, and it now wanted
twenty minutes of that hour, but people were already beginning to come.
They were strolling lazily down the four streets that led into the
plaza, standing expectantly at the corners, hugging the shade of the
big mill building on the west.

On the southerly curb, talking with each other, stood Halpert McCormack
and Ben Barriscale. They had both reached the age of eighteen years.
The one straight, slender and fair-haired, was telling the other that
he had obtained employment in the Citizens’ Bank and was to begin work
there the following day. The career thus to be begun was not the one
that had been planned for him. He was to have gone to college and then
into one of the learned professions. But the death of his father soon
after his own graduation from a preparatory school made it necessary to
change the plans for his future, and he was to go into business instead.

“It’s too bad,” said Ben, “that you had to cut out your college course.
You should have been a professor of something or other, you’re so chock
full of wisdom. What was it the boys used to call you? Socrates?”

“I believe so.”

“And you were going to set the world right; weren’t you?”

“Well, I thought there were some things in the world that needed to be
set right; I still think so.”

“For instance?”

“For instance, the unequal distribution of wealth.”

“Oh, every one can’t be rich. Who’d do the world’s work?”

“No, every one can’t be rich, that’s true. But if things were properly
adjusted every one would have plenty, and there would be no poverty.”

“That’s some of your socialistic nonsense, Hal. I’ve got a right to be
rich if I can get the money honestly. And I’m going to be rich, too, if
hard work will get me there.”

“Ah, but you’re Benjamin Barriscale’s son. And your father is a
millionaire. And you’ve got a chance that no other fellow in this town
has. That’s what I’m finding fault with. Opportunity should be equal
for all of us. And when things are set right it will be.”

How much longer this sociological discussion would have continued
had it not been interrupted is uncertain. But it was interrupted.
An automobile drew up to the curb, and in it was seated Miss Sarah
Halpert, alone save for the driver of the car. Her appearance and
manner indicated that she was a woman of some importance in the
community. She was appropriately gowned, attractive in looks, and under
the brim of her flower-bedecked hat her abundant hair showed becomingly
gray. The fair-haired boy greeted her cordially as Aunt Sarah, the dark
and stocky one with due courtesy, as Miss Halpert.

“I suppose you boys are here to see the flag-raising,” she said. “I’m
sorry I can’t stay for it. I like the idea tremendously.” She turned
to face the dark-haired boy and continued: “I’m not a great admirer of
your father, Ben, everybody knows that. But I certainly commend him for
heading the movement to put this flag here. Parades and speeches are
all right enough in their way; but when it comes to inspiring genuine
patriotism, give me the sight of ‘Old Glory’ waving in the breeze every
time.”

“Yes,” answered Ben, “there are so many persons of foreign birth
working in the mills that father thought the sight of the flag every
day would be a constant reminder to them of the duty they owe this
government, and the necessity they are under of obeying its laws.”

“Good idea!” exclaimed the lady. “Don’t you think so, Hal?” turning to
the fair-haired boy.

“I suppose so,” replied Hal, “provided the government is so conducted
as to command their obedience and respect.”

“Well, isn’t it?” she asked sharply.

“Oh, I think there are some things that might be changed for the
better.”

“What are they, I’d like to know? No, you needn’t tell me. It’s just
some of your high-brow notions about the social order and that sort of
thing, and I don’t want to hear them. What business has a boy of your
age, anyway, befogging his brains over economic problems? Studying
baseball scores is a vastly better business for young fellows like you.”

The music of an approaching band had grown more distinct, and a
procession could be seen coming down the main street toward the plaza.
The procession consisted of town officials, speakers of the day,
committeemen, prominent citizens, a group of young girls dressed in
white, and the local company of state militia. Miss Sarah Halpert
stood up in her automobile to watch the soldiers as they marched by.
Dressed in khaki, arms at a right-shoulder, straight and sturdy,
obeying commands with the precision of veterans, they certainly formed
a pleasing and inspiring sight. The woman clapped her hands vigorously
in approval, her eyes sparkled, and a flush came into her cheeks.

“Splendid!” she cried. “There’s young manhood for you!” She turned
toward the fair-haired youth.

“Halpert McCormack,” she exclaimed, “you ought to be in that company
this minute. A boy whose father was captain of it for ten years has no
right to be outside of it.”

“I’ve been thinking about joining,” responded Hal. “I’m eighteen now,
and I suppose I could get in. I think father would have liked me to be
a member.”

“Of course he would. You must apply for admission to the company at
once. What about you, Ben?” turning to the other boy.

“Oh, my application’s already in,” replied Ben. “I believe in the
military life. It’s splendid discipline for any fellow. Besides, when
my country needs soldiers I want to be prepared to fight.”

“Good! That’s the talk!” She clapped her hands again. “Now go to it,
Hal. See who gets a commission first, you or Ben. I’ll tell you what
I want,” she continued; “I want to see Halpert McCormack captain of
Company E, as his father was before him, and Benjamin Barriscale its
first lieutenant.”

“Suppose the order of rank should be reversed?” inquired Hal,
laughingly.

“It wouldn’t hurt my feelings a great lot,” she retorted. “It’s only
because ‘blood is thicker than water,’ and because you’re my only
sister’s son, that I want you to be the ranking officer; but if you
don’t deserve the honor I hope to goodness you won’t get it!” She
consulted her watch and continued: “Well, I must be off. I’ll leave you
boys to see that that flag is properly raised. Good-bye, both of you!”

She gave hurried directions to her driver, the car moved forward, and,
with a final wave of her hand, she disappeared up the street down which
she had so recently come.

The procession had passed by, the soldiers were standing at the foot
of the staff at “parade rest,” and the band had already begun to play
the opening number of the programme when the two boys, pushing their
way through the crowd, reached more nearly the center of activity.
Following the music there came an invocation by a local clergyman and
a brief address by the mayor. Then the young girls, dressed in white,
charged with the duty of actually raising the flag, came forward to
perform their patriotic task. Assisted by the chairman of the flag
committee, they fastened the colors securely to the halyards and
awaited the order to begin hoisting. The company bugler sounded to the
color, and the band struck into the first chord of The Star-Spangled
Banner. Some one shouted: “Hats off!” and immediately the hat or cap of
every man and boy in the assemblage came from his head, the hat or cap
of every man and boy save one. Immediately back of Ben and Hal stood
a black-haired, dark-eyed young man, apparently of foreign birth or
descent. His hat did not come off. He was fairly well dressed, he bore
marks of intelligence if not of culture, and there appeared to be no
reason why he should not join the rest of the company in doing honor
to the national anthem and the national flag. Moreover, from his easy
manner and confident look, it soon became apparent that he acted, or
failed to act, not from ignorance or inadvertence, but from deliberate
choice.

“Take off your hat!” said a man standing beside him.

“Why should I take off my hat?” he replied.

“Because they’re playing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ and they’re raising
the flag, you fool!”

The young man with the covered head did not appear to resent the
uncomplimentary remark, but he made no move which might have been
interpreted as an intention to obey the order that had been given to
him. The two boys had already turned to face the speakers. People in
the vicinity who, by reason of the band’s music, had failed to hear
what had been said, yet knowing that a quarrel was beginning, began to
move toward the immediate scene of the controversy. The defiant young
man regarded them with cool indifference.

“The flag which they raise,” he said, “stands too much for the
injustice and the wrong, that I should honor it.”

The man who had protested grew red in the face.

“Why, you ingrate,” he shouted, “the protection you get from that flag
was what brought you to this free country, and you know it!”

And the defiant one answered:

“The only flag which gives the protection to all men alike is the red
flag of the common brotherhood. I honor no capitalist banner.”

He spoke distinctly, decisively, with an accent that marked him as a
student if not a master of English. Still his hat remained on his
head. More people, attracted by the speakers, began to crowd closer,
eager to hear, at short range, what was an interesting if not a heated
controversy.

In the meantime, at the foot of the flagstaff, there was confusion
and delay. The band was still playing, but the colors were not moving
upward. Something had gone wrong with the apparatus by which the
flag was to be hoisted. A portion of the blue field and some of the
milk-white stars had been drawn up above the heads of the audience,
but had refused to go higher. Apparently the halyards had caught in
the pulley at the top of the staff, and all the efforts of the young
girls robed in white, and all the efforts of the chairman of the flag
committee, mingled freely with perspiration and ejaculations, failed
to release them. But, even in the face of this attractively awkward
situation, people were turning and pressing in ever increasing numbers
toward the man who had refused to uncover his head either at the sound
of the music or the sight of the folds of The Star-Spangled Banner.

An impetuous young fellow, pushing his way in from the outskirts of the
crowd, cried:

“Oh, don’t fool with him! If he won’t take his hat off, knock it off!”

The suggestion was no sooner made than it was acted upon. A near-by
hand shot out, and the next moment the offensive head-gear went flying
out into the crowd. The face of the defiant one flushed and paled, his
dark eyes blazed with indignation, his lips twitched; but he did not
speak. No one appeared to sympathize with him; no one put forth any
effort to protect him. On the contrary, all those who witnessed the
overt act made noisy manifestation of their approval; all but Halpert
McCormack. He was silent and doubtful. He would have resented any
imputation of disloyalty on his part either in thought or deed. But the
thing that had just been done did not appeal to him. It offended his
sense of justice. His sympathy, which had always been for the under dog
in any fight, was aroused in behalf of the man who was standing alone
in the midst of a hostile crowd. But he said nothing; it would have
been useless to protest. Nor was he quite sure that the man had not,
partly at least, deserved the treatment he had received. Doubtless the
incident would have been closed then and there had not the red-faced
man who had originally protested desired further to express his
abhorrence of acts savoring of disloyalty to the flag.

“You’ve no kick coming,” he said, addressing the young man whose hat
had been forcibly removed and was now irretrievably crushed; “you’re
lucky not to have your face smashed as well as your hat.”

“Well,” was the prompt reply, “if this is what you call it, the American
spirit of fair play, then I have the good reason to dishonor your
American flag.”

And the red-faced man, growing still more angry, retorted:

“If you don’t like the American spirit, go back where you came from.
What business have you got here, anyway? Who are you?”

Again the reply came promptly and deliberately:

“I have the same business here like you. Me, I am Hugo Donatello,
Internationalist. My journal, which I publish in your city, is by name
_The Disinherited_. I commend it to your reading that you may learn
from it the first principles of human justice and decency.”

Then the fellow at whose suggestion Donatello was made hatless broke in
again:

“Oh, I know who he is. He’s an anarchist. He’s no business here. Run
him out!”

Half a dozen voices echoed the cry: “Run him out! Run him out!”

In the crowd there was a movement, perceptible and ominous, an
involuntary drawing toward the center of the disturbance. The red-faced
man spoke up again:

“Gentlemen, this fellow is not only an enemy to our government, he has
also insulted our flag. Before he is permitted to go he should be made
to apologize.”

The idea became suddenly popular.

“Yes,” was the cry from a dozen throats, “make him apologize!”

The red-faced man turned toward the intended victim. “Well,” he
demanded, “are you going to do it?”

“Do what?”

“Apologize.”

“To whom?”

“To the flag.”

“But I do not honor your flag. It is the same as nothing to me.”

“We’ll make you honor it. By the shade of Washington, we’ll make you
kiss it!”

“Ah, that is the autocratic boast! But I am of the people. I defy you!
I will spit upon your flag!”

He stood, with bloodless face and blazing eyes, desperate and defiant.
He could no longer hold his anger in check. He had spoken his mind. And
he knew, or should have known, that he must now pay the penalty for
his rashness. It was Ben Barriscale who, echoing the red-faced man’s
suggestion, shouted:

“Make him kiss the flag!”

It was a suggestion and a demand that was caught up at once by the
crowd, and immediately there was a concerted movement to carry it out.
A powerful man, standing near Donatello, seized his arms and pinioned
them behind his back. A dozen hands reached out to force him toward
the spot where the colors still lay in the arms of the girls dressed in
white.

Up to this moment Halpert McCormack had looked on disapprovingly,
but had held his peace. He could remain silent no longer. His sense
of fair play had been outraged. To hound this man into expressions
of disloyalty and contempt and then to make him pay the humiliating
penalty strained his patience to the breaking point.

“It’s not fair!” he shouted. “You drove him into it. You’ve got no
right to punish him!” He started forward, with arms raised as if to
strike off the hands that were gripping and pushing the defamer of the
flag. But men who were not able to reach Donatello could reach his
would-be defender, and they did. They held him back and pulled down his
arms, and the red-faced man shouted at him:

“You hold your tongue, young fellow, or you’ll get a dose of the same
medicine.”

But the victim of over-zealous patriotism shot a grateful glance at the
boy.

“You have the red blood,” he cried; “I salute you!”

Then, hatless, white-faced, outraged in soul and body, Donatello was
propelled, not too gently, to the foot of the flagstaff.

The young girls in white became so frightened at the spectacle that
they forgot all rules of flag etiquette and dropped the colors to the
ground and fled. And into the mass of red, white and blue bunting,
caught up by some rescuer, the face of the man who had expressed a
desire to spit upon the flag was rudely and violently thrust. He had
been forced to his knees, his coat was half torn from his shoulders,
and his mass of black hair was flung in disorder across his eyes.

After his commendation of McCormack’s futile effort to protect him
he did not again speak. He knew that words would have been not only
useless but provocative no doubt of still greater violence. And when
the crowd, burning with patriotic zeal, had worked its will with him,
had made him, after its fashion, “kiss the flag,” they let him go. They
not only let him go, they helped him on his way. They escorted him to
the curb at the opening of the main street into the plaza, turned his
face to the north, and, with one final thrust, sent him reeling up the
walk. Having performed this patriotic task they returned to the foot of
the flagstaff where renewed efforts on the part of the chairman of the
committee had finally resulted in the freeing of the halyards, and “Old
Glory,” hoisted by the girls in white, at last flung its emblematic
folds out on the sustaining winds, and flashed its splendid colors in
the sunlight of a perfect summer day.

But one young American, Halpert McCormack by name, unconscious of any
feeling of disloyalty to his country’s flag, believing nevertheless
that it had been made the occasion and the cause of unnecessary and
disgraceful persecution, turned away in disgust from the crowd that
had been so rudely patriotic, and walked thoughtfully and regretfully
toward his home.

And one young radical of foreign birth and destructive purpose, son
of Italian parents, outraged beyond expression at his treatment by a
patriotic mob, sought his modest quarters to brood over his wrongs,
and to lay plans and conceive plots that should in time satisfy his
passionate desire for revenge.




CHAPTER V


Although the incident at the flag-raising on the Fourth of July was
deeply and unpleasantly impressed on the mind and memory of Halpert
McCormack, it did not deter him from following the advice of his
Aunt Sarah Halpert, and filing his application to become a member of
Company E of the National Guard. He felt, in the first place, that in
doing so he was honoring the memory of his father, who had been, in
his lifetime, the captain of the company and devoted to its interests.
He felt also that while military force ought to be unnecessary in the
conduct and protection of governments, the times were not yet ripe for
the voluntary disarmament of any nation, and that perhaps it was his
duty as a young American citizen to identify himself with the visible
means of preserving domestic order and preventing foreign aggression.
His application for enlistment was promptly approved by the commanding
officer, and he was directed to present himself at the armory to be
sworn in.

It so happened that McCormack and Benjamin Barriscale, Jr., appeared
at headquarters on the same evening for the same purpose. The oath,
administered to them by Captain Murray, was handed to them on separate
sheets for each one to sign. Young Barriscale affixed his name at once
with a dash and a certainty that indicated complete satisfaction with
the course he was taking. But McCormack was not so prompt. He was
given to deliberation, and he read over carefully the oath that he had
already heard. It was only after he had fully digested its contents and
asked some questions concerning it that he signed his name. One clause
of it stuck fast in his memory, and he never afterward forgot it.

    “And I do solemnly swear that I will bear true faith and
    allegiance to the United States of America, that I will
    serve them honestly and faithfully against all their enemies
    whomsoever.”

After the ceremony of enlistment had been completed Barriscale and
McCormack were placed in charge of a sergeant and taken down to the
drill-hall to be instructed in the “setting-up” process. And, as no
other recruits had been enlisted at about that time, they two alone
formed the awkward squad.

They were made to assume the position and attitude of a soldier:
Heels on the same line, feet turned out equally, knees straight
without stiffness, body and head erect and squarely to the front,
chin drawn in, arms hanging naturally with thumbs along the seams of
the trousers. They were drilled in alignments, in the facings and in
marchings. Occasionally an officer or a group of privates would come
along and watch for a little the instruction of the “rookies,” and
comment on the facility with which they grasped an understanding of
military methods and practice. But there was no criticism of their
awkwardness, nor was any fun made of their mistakes.

The most interested onlooker was Chick Dalloway. Chick was a hanger-on
of Company E. He had a decided leaning toward the military life, and
hoped some day to be a member of the company. But poor Chick was
under-sized, hump-backed, lop-shouldered, and hollow-chested. Moreover
he had not that degree of mental alertness and stability necessary in
an efficient soldier. So, although no one had ever had the heart, or
heartlessness, to tell him so, every one but Chick knew that there
was no possibility of his ever becoming an enlisted man in Company E.
In the meantime, however, the company profited by his devotion to its
interests. He was always present on drill nights, he always accompanied
the troops to the summer encampment, he ran errands, he carried water,
he cleaned equipment, he performed all kinds of humble service for
the officers and enlisted men; and while he was not on the company’s
pay-roll, he received regularly a small gratuity from those whom he
served. And as the weeks and months and years went by, he never ceased
to dream of the day when he too should wear khaki, and carry a rifle,
and march with the best of them.

At the end of an hour the two new recruits were dismissed with
commendation from the drill-master and compliments from Chick.

“I ain’t never seen no two rookies,” said the boy, “since I been in the
company, what got into the game quicker’n easier’n them fellers.”

It was three weeks later that McCormack, on his way to the armory on
a drill night, ran squarely into Hugo Donatello at the river bridge
on Main Street. It was the first time that the two young men had seen
each other since the Fourth of July, but the recognition was mutual.
McCormack would have passed on with a nod, but Donatello stopped and
held out his hand.

“I have not before had the opportunity,” he said, “to thank you for
your attitude toward me on your Independence Day. I wish that I do so
now.”

Hal took the man’s hand; he could do no less.

“Oh,” he replied, “that was nothing. I thought they weren’t giving you
a square deal, and I said so, that was all.”

“I know; but it demanded the courage to say so. You were very brave.
Me, I shall not soon forget it.”

“Well,” replied Hal, smiling, “I always did sympathize with the under
dog in a fight, and you were the under dog that day all right.”

“Yes. The--the under dog.” He was a little doubtful about the meaning
of the phrase. The simile was not familiar to him. But he continued:
“They thought to punish me. It is the--what you call--boomerang. The
incident is known and deprecated by workers everywhere. It has roused
their resentment. They do not like that a capitalist flag be made one
excuse for abuse and oppression of a member of the proletariat. The
ruling class, they are to suffer for that outrage.”

His voice rose at the finish, and his eyes flashed. It was plain that
the resentment he harbored was deep and bitter.

“I’ve told you already,” said Hal, “that I didn’t think they treated
you right. But I don’t know that it was the ruling class that was to
blame for it.”

“Yes. The capitalistic system. That is it which is to blame for all
outrages on society. When the workers come into control, it is then
that there will be justice for everybody.”

He opened his arms as if to take into his embrace all men everywhere.

“I know,” replied Hal. “I know what you people preach; I know what your
paper advocates. I read it. I’m interested in this social problem. I
think you’re right in a good many things, but I can’t follow you to the
end. I’m with everybody who doesn’t have a fair chance. But I don’t
see the justice in knocking down a man who has a little more than I
have and taking it away from him, provided he got it honestly.”

“Exactly! If he got it honestly then would he have no more than his
fellow-man. Exactly! It is the ruling class who take the workers by
the throat and choke them, so, into submission, into labor, poverty,
bondage. What is the law? They make the law for us to obey. Do we
ask for our own? Behold the jail! Do we try to take what belongs to
us? Come the hired assassins, police, constabulary, militia, federal
troops. So! It is terrible! Yet, some day, some day the workers will
come into their own!”

They had stopped on the bridge and stood leaning against the
guard-rail, looking out through the twilight across the shadowed
surface of the river to the hills that towered precipitately from the
farther bank. As they stood there Ben Barriscale passed them by on his
way to the armory. Attracted by the eagerness in Donatello’s voice, he
slackened his pace for a moment to look and listen. But the speakers,
absorbed in their conversation, did not notice him.

“Why,” replied Hal, “I know there’s a good deal of injustice. But
without the courts and the military there’d be more. We’ve got to have
a government, and laws, and we’ve got to keep order. That’s what the
militia is for. I belong to the National Guard, now, myself.”

“So? You are, then, a soldier?”

“Yes. I’ve got a state and a country. I’ve sworn allegiance to the
United States, and to the State of Pennsylvania, and that I will serve
them against all their enemies.”

“So, then, who are their enemies?” asked Donatello, and answered his
own question: “all who exploit labor and oppress the poor.”

“Yes,” agreed Hal, “that’s true, perhaps. But there may be more direct
enemies. Mobs at home, governments abroad that would want to fight us.
We must protect our own. We must be patriotic.”

Donatello caught up the word:

“Patriotic! What then is patriotism? A fetish! Nothing more. A
superstition fostered by capitalism for its own most selfish purposes.
Oh, in that day, under the rule of the proletariat, patriotism will not
be any more. Workers the world over will unite under one flag, the red
flag of the common brotherhood. Not any longer will be nationalism, but
internationalism. Not any longer will be wars, poverty, suffering; but
peace, always peace, plenty, happiness!”

The arc light on the bridge flashed up and lighted the speaker’s face,
aglow with earnestness and conviction. That he was a devout believer in
his own propaganda there could be no doubt.

Hal lifted his elbows from the railing and shook his shoulders as if to
cast off the spell laid on him by the speaker’s enthusiasm.

“Well,” he said, “I’ve got to hurry along or I’ll be late for drill.
I’m glad to have had a talk with you, though; I’ve often wanted to hear
one of you radicals expound your beliefs. I’ve thought and read about
these things quite a bit. I like your idealism all right; but I can’t
follow you practically.”

“Ah, but some day you will, when you see the more clearly. I shall talk
with you again; is it not so? I have much interest. We may reach common
ground.”

He held out his hand cordially, as to an old-time friend. So they shook
hands and said good-night to each other, and then Private McCormack,
with a leaning toward socialism, hurried along to the armory to attend
to his duties as a soldier in the service of the State.

Both McCormack and Barriscale were now serving regularly in the ranks.
They were fully uniformed and equipped, and they drilled, marched, and
faced imaginary foes with the rest. It was not a disagreeable service.
The officers of the company were considerate, and the enlisted men
were for the most part congenial, at least to Hal. Moreover, there was
a kind of satisfaction, an exhilaration indeed, in the performance
of military movements in unison with a body of men. The swing and
rhythm of it were captivating to Hal, the sense of power engendered by
it was inspiring to Ben. And then, too, a feeling of patriotism was
aroused, an emotion that would not have been so deeply stirred by the
activities of civil life. But, while McCormack was patriotic, he was
not bloodthirsty. On the contrary, he was peace-loving in the extreme.
No one would have deprecated more than he the necessity of going to
war, yet if his country had been endangered, or his flag threatened, he
would not have hesitated to fight. Young Barriscale, on the other hand,
was more belligerent. He believed in the arbitrament of the sword.
He believed that a nation like ours should always maintain a strong,
well-drilled, well-officered national army, and be prepared to fight,
not only for the suppression of domestic and internal revolts, not only
for the defense of its own soil, but also for the preservation of the
liberties of any people oppressed by a tyrannical government, as Cuba
had been prior to 1898. Naturally, with such divergent opinions, there
had been more than one clash between the two boys, yet no bad blood had
been aroused, and their friendship with each other remained unbroken.
There had been another point of disagreement between them also. That
was concerning the punishment meted out to Donatello on the Fourth of
July. Ben had insisted that it was not a fraction of what he deserved;
Hal had contended that it was excessive, uncalled for, and brutal. So,
while the two young men remained passive friends, there had been no
companionship between them. Indeed, they had little in common save a
desire on the part of each to excel in proficiency as a member of the
National Guard.

Then came an incident, entirely unlooked for, that brought to a sudden
end such friendly relations as had hitherto existed between them. It
occurred on the same evening on which McCormack had had his interview
with Donatello on the bridge. It was following company drill. Ranks
had been broken, and the men moved off, singly and in groups, to the
stack and locker room to put away their rifles and equipment, Hal and
Ben going with the rest. But it so chanced that each of the two boys,
independently of the other, decided to remain for a little and clean
and brighten up his gun and accoutrements.

Ben had discovered a small spot of rust on the barrel of his rifle and
he determined to remove it. So, after oiling and rubbing the leather
parts of his equipment, he got a piece of emery paper from his locker
and set to work.

The only persons remaining in the stack-room at this time, besides
himself, were Hal, who was busy cleaning his own rifle, and Chick, who
was watching them both.

Chick usually followed the enlisted men to the racks after drill, and
helped them, so far as they cared to be helped, in disposing of their
arms and accoutrements.

He was looking on now at Hal, talking with him, making suggestions and
comments, commending him for the excellence of his work. Of the two
boys he liked Hal the better. For Hal was always kind to him, and very
considerate, and treated him just as though he were already the bona
fide enlisted man that he expected some day to be; while Ben, aside
from directing him, on occasion, to perform some small service, was
dignified and distant, and had little to say to him.

So to-night, save for an occasional side glance, Chick was paying
little attention to Private Barriscale. But when, out of the corner of
his eye, he saw Ben, with his rifle resting across his knees, begin
to rub the spot of rust on the barrel with a square of emery paper,
the boy’s attention was instantly attracted, and his interest aroused.
He looked on incredulously for a moment, then, apparently unable to
restrain his criticism, he walked across the room to where Ben was
sitting.

“Excuse me!” he said, saluting as he approached, “but that ain’t no way
to git rust spots off’n a rifle bar’l.”

Private Barriscale looked up in amazement. He was not accustomed to
being criticized by a company hanger-on, and, besides, things had not
gone well at the drill, and he was not in a particularly genial mood.

“What? What’s that you say?” he demanded sharply.

“I say,” responded Chick, “as that ain’t no way to clean a rifle bar’l.
You shouldn’t ever ought to clean a rifle bar’l with emery.”

“What business is it of yours how I clean my rifle?”

“Why, I s’pose ’tain’t none o’ my business. But I know ’t no one can’t
clean his rifle bar’l with no emery paper, cause it’s ag’inst the
rules.”

“Well, when I want your advice I’ll tell you. In the meantime suppose
you confine your admonitions to your friend across the room.”

Chick was not angry nor resentful. He felt that he had done his duty by
a new recruit. If his advice was not acceptable it was not his fault.

“Excuse me!” he said. “I didn’t have no intention o’ buttin’ in. I just
wanted you to know what I know about cleanin’ rifle bar’ls. I al’ays
try to help the rookies out, best I kin.”

Then, indeed, Ben’s wrath blazed up. To be called a “rookie” by this
inconsequential camp-trotter was more than he could stand. He jumped to
his feet and brought the butt of his rifle to the floor with a crash.

“You leave this room!” he shouted. “You’ve no business here! You’re a
meddler and a fool!”

Chick stood staring at the angry youth in amazement. He could not
understand why his well-intentioned advice should have brought forth
such a burst of wrath. Still less could he understand why he should
be ordered to leave a room in which, so far as he knew, he had been
welcome as a friend and helper for the last three years. Nor could
Halpert McCormack understand it. Or, if he did dimly understand the
cause of Barriscale’s wrath he could have no sympathy with him in his
angry outburst. Up to this moment he had been a silent witness to the
affair. Now he felt that it was just to Chick, and due to his own
self-respect, that he should take a hand in it.

“You don’t have to go, Chick,” he said quietly. “I’ve as much authority
here as Barriscale has, and I tell you to stay.”

Ben’s face, already flushed with anger, turned scarlet now. For a
moment he could not find words with which to express his indignation.
But when he did speak it was apparent that the current of his wrath had
changed and was setting violently toward Hal.

“What business is it of yours,” he demanded, “what orders I give to
this intermeddling runt?”

“It’s my business,” replied Hal, “because you’ve no right to give such
orders. Besides, Chick wasn’t intermeddling; he intended to do you a
favor.”

“Me? Do me a favor?” He spoke in a voice and manner of infinite scorn.

“Yes. He was entirely right when he said it was improper and against
the rules to use emery paper on your rifle barrel. A little oil,
a piece of soft wood, and a woolen rag will remove a spot of rust
effectually and save the finish on your barrel.”

If Hal had thought to appease his comrade’s wrath by this explanation,
he soon discovered his error. Barriscale was more violently angry than
before.

“Who set you up,” he shouted, “as an instructor in the care of arms?”

McCormack was still calm.

“No one,” he replied. “I’ve simply studied my regulations, and Chick
taught me, a week ago, how to remove rust.”

“Oh, Chick taught you, did he? Major-General Chick! No wonder you’ve
made a bosom friend of him! It seems to be the height of your ambition
to make boon companions of anarchists and fools!”

This was his parting shot. He put his rifle in its place in the rack
with a bang, flung his cleaning appliances into his locker and snapped
the door shut, and then, white with unreasonable rage, he left the
room.




CHAPTER VI


It was late in the spring following the enlistment of Halpert McCormack
and Ben Barriscale in Company E. Ben’s father, for whom the boy had
been named, was well satisfied with his son’s predilection toward
military service, and looked to see him make rapid promotions. Mr.
Barriscale was still favorably disposed toward the National Guard.
As president of the Barriscale Manufacturing Company he was a large
employer of both skilled and unskilled labor. There had been times when
differences of opinion between him and his employees had reached the
verge of a strike, with possible violence and disorder looming up in
the distance. Such times might occur in the future. No one could tell.
If they should occur, and if there should be any serious outbreak, an
outbreak beyond the power of the local police or the state constabulary
to quell, then the safety of a half million dollars’ worth of property
might depend on the prompt and efficient action of the soldiers of the
National Guard.

It had been demonstrated, time and again, that the military are always
masters of the mob. This fact may have accounted to some extent for
Mr. Barriscale’s interest in the state militia. And his favorable
attitude toward Company E was doubtless largely due to the further fact
that his only son was now a promising member of that organization. Be
that as it may, when he entered Captain Murray’s office on an ideal
June morning in 1914 it was with a most favorable predisposition toward
the company of which the captain was the commander. It was also with a
due sense of the importance of his errand. But Mr. Barriscale’s errands
were always important. As the head of the greatest industry in the city
of Fairweather, he was, of necessity, one of the city’s leading men,
and he was not averse to being recognized as such.

It was his habit, in matters of business, to waste no time in
preliminary or needless conversation. He was by nature as blunt and
direct as Captain Murray was politic and suave. He might therefore have
been expected to go at once to the purpose of his visit; but, for some
unknown reason, he apparently desired, on this occasion, to approach it
by degrees.

“I am, as you doubtless know,” he said, “a firm believer in the
National Guard. I consider it one of the most important arms of our
state government.”

The captain replied courteously: “I have understood that to be your
attitude, Mr. Barriscale; and of course I fully agree with you.”

“And possibly,” continued the visitor, “you will recall the fact that
I was one of the contributors, I may say the largest contributor,
toward the fund raised by the citizens for the purchase of the ground
on which the State erected your armory, and president of the local
Armory Board.”

“Yes; I remember that circumstance and your service with gratitude.”

“And since my son has been a member of Company E, of course my interest
in your organization has greatly increased.”

“Quite naturally, and very properly.”

The captain was now wondering what all this was leading up to, but his
curiosity was not to be immediately satisfied. So far as prolixity was
concerned, Mr. Barriscale was breaking the habit of a lifetime. He
continued:

“I wish to say that I was particularly impressed with the fine
appearance, the soldierly precision, and the correct military bearing
of your men in the parade on last Memorial Day.”

“Thank you! I appreciate the compliment. I believe the men deserve it.”

“Yes. And I consider it our duty, sir, as civilians, to encourage our
young soldiers to excel in military performance; in fact, sir, to make
your company the crack company in the National Guard of our State.”

“Thank you! That would be a most laudable ambition on the part of my
men.”

“Therefore I have decided to establish a prize of one hundred dollars
to be awarded each year to that enlisted man of your company who
shall be most proficient in military drill, and most faithful in the
performance of all of his military duties.”

“Yes?” Now that the secret was out Captain Murray was not only taken by
surprise, as Mr. Barriscale intended he should be, but he was not quite
sure whether the surprise was an agreeable one. “Yes,” he repeated.
“A most generous proposition on your part. I shall be very glad to
consider its practicability.”

“Oh, I have considered all that,” was the reassuring reply. “The plan
is entirely feasible. I propose to place a fund of twenty-five hundred
dollars in trust, the annual interest on which will pay the expense
of administration and provide the stipulated amount for the prize. As
to the manner of making the award I am not particular. I am entirely
willing that the company commander shall designate the man.”

“I would not think of taking such a responsibility on myself,” replied
the captain promptly. “A commanding officer should avoid everything
which might possibly be construed as an act of favoritism.”

“Yes, I had thought you might hesitate to make an award, and in that
event I had decided to recommend that it be made by a committee of
commissioned officers chosen from the Guard outside of your company.
That method should be entirely satisfactory to the competitors.”

“No doubt it would be. But, of course, the first question to be decided
is that of accepting your most generous offer.”

Mr. Barriscale looked a trifle startled. “You do not mean to intimate,”
he said, “that there is any doubt in your mind about the advisability
of accepting my gift?”

The captain replied diplomatically:

“Regardless of how eager I might be, personally, to take advantage
of your offer, I consider the matter too important to be left to my
unaided judgment. In the first place, your proposition should be
presented to my military superiors for their approval, and, that
obtained, my men should have a voice in the matter of its acceptance.”

Mr. Barriscale was surprised but not disconcerted.

“Your men?” he said inquiringly. “I can understand why your superior
officers should be consulted, but I presumed that it was for your men
to obey orders and abide by rules.”

“Well, you see it’s this way, Mr. Barriscale. In a way military
government is excessively autocratic, and in another way it is,
or should be, highly democratic. It’s the only way to preserve
discipline, and at the same time to keep the men happy, contented and
self-respecting. Now, in a case like this, which lies somewhat outside
of military rules, precedents and discipline, I think it is extremely
important that the men should have their say about it from the start.
It makes a better feeling all the way around. Captain McCormack adopted
that policy years ago, and I have tried to continue it. I think you see
the point.”

“Yes, I see. I suppose popular opinion must be catered to, even in
military matters. Well, have it as you like. There is no doubt but that
your men will eagerly embrace such an opportunity as I offer them, not
only for the sake of the prize itself, but also for the sake of the
incentive to excel that it will give to all of them.”

“Yes.” Captain Murray did not seem to be unduly enthusiastic, and Mr.
Barriscale continued:

“I will have my lawyer put the offer in correct written form, setting
forth the purpose and conditions of the foundation, so that you will
have a concrete proposition to present to your superiors in office. I
will burden the gift with but one unalterable condition, and that is
that the prize shall be known as ‘The Barriscale Prize for Military
Excellence.’”

“A very proper and appropriate name for it, I am sure. I will take
the matter up immediately upon receiving your written offer. In the
meantime permit me to express to you my deep personal gratitude for
your interest in my men.”

There were a few minutes more of courteous conversation, and then Mr.
Barriscale hurried to the street, entered his car, and was driven to
his office at the mills, leaving Captain Murray uncertain, perplexed,
and apprehensive of trouble in the matter of the millionaire’s proposed
gift.

Nor was Mr. Barriscale entirely satisfied with the result of his
interview. As he thought the matter over later, in his office, it
occurred to him that his proposal should have been accepted at once
by the company commander. To refer the offer to the enlisted men
for their approval might imply that there was a question about the
acceptability of his gift, and this was not a pleasing thought to him.
It was inconceivable that a public donation from Benjamin Barriscale
should be looked at askance by the donees. But the situation annoyed
him to such an extent that he was on the point of calling up Captain
Murray by telephone and withdrawing his offer, and doubtless he would
have done so had he not been at that moment interrupted by a business
call of importance. Later in the day, however, when his mind returned
to the topic, his resolution had stiffened, and he decided to see the
matter through, regardless of the manner of reception of his offer.
He had made the proposition, he would stand by his guns. It was not
long, therefore, before he sent to Captain Murray the written plan
for his proposed prize donation. The captain sent it up to regimental
headquarters and asked for instructions. In due time he was advised
that there was nothing in the regulations to prevent the acceptance of
the gift, and that so long as it proceeded from an individual, and not
from a firm or corporation employing workmen, there would appear to be
nothing in military ethics adverse to the idea of acceptance. In short,
it was a matter for the discretion of the company commander, or for the
decision of his enlisted men if he chose to refer the question to them.

Captain Murray was in a quandary. He feared to throw the question of
acceptance open to his men lest the proposed prize should become an
apple of discord. He hesitated to decide the matter himself, lest he
should be considered too autocratic. Moreover, while he felt that the
company could not afford to reject a gift offered by a man of Mr.
Barriscale’s prominence and peculiarity, he well knew that the spirit
in which the offer had been made was not an entirely disinterested
one, and that if the gift were accepted the public would draw its own
conclusions. Many times he heartily wished that the fertile brain of
the millionaire manufacturer had never conceived the idea.

Not so Mr. Barriscale. Having recovered from the slight shock which
Captain Murray’s hesitancy had given him, the more he thought about
his proposition the more pleased he was with his altruistic plan. He
mentioned the matter to his friends and sought their approval, which
he readily obtained; and before the company commander had heard from
headquarters, the subject of the proposed gift had become a town topic.

In the next issue of Donatello’s weekly journal, _The Disinherited_,
there appeared a brief but biting editorial headed: “Is it an Attempt
to Bribe the Military?”

It ran as follows:

    “It is reported, credibly, that a citizen millionaire of
    Fairweather has made the offer to the company of state soldiery
    in this city that he pay $100 for each of the years to one
    member of the company who shall be found to be most excellent
    in the military drill. So open-faced a scheme is not necessary
    to further the capitalistic advantage. The soldiery of the
    State know already whom they serve. Should it be that the
    workers of the city make a similar offer, it would be hailed
    immediately as bribery. We are informed that the members of the
    company will vote whether they will accept this millionaire’s
    offer. It will be interesting to watch, to see how many of the
    uniformed servants of capitalism will by this vote proclaim
    their allegiance to those their masters.”

Donatello’s folio sheet was limited in circulation, but within
twenty-four hours after his editorial appeared in print it was being
discussed in Fairweather by all kinds of men in all grades of society,
and was being commended as a proper characterization of a proposed
donation, or else hotly denounced as an insult to an amiable gentleman,
and an unwarranted and vicious attack upon the integrity of Company E
of the National Guard. Nor was the membership of the company itself
entirely free from the bitterness of the controversy.

Captain Murray looked forward with grave apprehension to the company
meeting which had been called to take up the matter. He felt that it
was now more necessary than ever that the men themselves should decide
the question, but he knew that whichever way the vote went the result
would be an unfortunate one.

It was Monday when the opinion came from regimental headquarters;
it was Wednesday night after drill when the members of the company,
pursuant to notice, met as a business organization. Captain Murray was
in the chair. After two or three matters of secondary importance had
been disposed of he read to the men Mr. Barriscale’s written offer. At
the conclusion of the reading he said quietly:

“Owing to the unfortunate controversy which has arisen over this
proposal I have been tempted to take the matter into my own hands
and make a decision, as I have a right to do. But it is my desire
to preserve in the company a spirit of democracy so far as it may be
consistent with military usages and discipline. I am therefore leaving
the matter entirely to you. I have communicated with headquarters, and
I find that there is no military objection to the acceptance of this
gift. If you receive it it should be strictly under the conditions of
the offer. I am ready to entertain a motion.”

Captain Murray had no sooner finished speaking than Private Stone was
on his feet.

“I move,” said he, “that Mr. Barriscale’s gift to Company E be accepted
in accordance with the terms and conditions under which it is offered.”

The motion was promptly seconded.

“Are there any remarks?” asked the chairman. He looked over his
audience apprehensively, and appeared to be greatly relieved to find
that no one seemed to care to discuss the issue.

“If there are no remarks,” he continued, “I will put the question.”

But before he could actually call for the vote, Ben Barriscale rose to
his feet. He was recognized by the chair and said:

“I want to take this opportunity to repeat publicly what I have
frequently declared privately, that inasmuch as this prize is to be
given by my father I will not compete for it. I want to say also, in
answer to many open charges and mean insinuations, that there are
absolutely no strings attached to the gift. It is given in a spirit
of unselfish generosity. I am sure that those who have opposed its
acceptance have not the best interests of the Company at heart. They
have been moved by jealousy and class hatred. We should not let these
unjust suspicions and animosities influence us. We should grasp an
opportunity that may never come to us again. I hope the vote will be
unanimous for the acceptance of this gift. I call for the question.”

The speaker had no sooner taken his seat than Private McCormack arose.
The chairman recognized him and sighed. He felt that the storm he had
anticipated was about to break.

“In view of the remarks just made,” said McCormack, “I feel that it is
my duty to speak. I am opposed to the acceptance of this gift. But I
am not moved by jealousy or class hatred. I am not disputing the good
intentions of the giver. His motive may be an entirely disinterested
one. I do not know. But whether he intends it or not, or whether we
intend it or not, if we accept this gift we will be under an obligation
to him. If we were not we would have no sense of gratitude. The
National Guard has been sufficiently criticized as it is, for taking
the side of capital against labor in all clashes between them. No
doubt we have been accused unjustly, but the fact remains that we are
discredited in the eyes of thousands of good citizens. Don’t let us add
to our unpopularity by accepting from a capitalist this gift with its
implication of value received or to be received. I hope the proposition
will be voted down.”

Before the applause that greeted McCormack’s speech had begun to die
down, Private Barriscale was again on his feet. His face was red with
anger, and his eyes were flashing resentment. His wrath was kindled now
not only against McCormack, but also against all those who, by their
applause, had signified their approval of his words.

“I am surprised,” he said, “that remarks such as you have just heard
should be greeted with applause by any member of this company. The
man who seeks to discredit his comrades in arms, who charges them
with being pawns of capital, prejudiced against the poor, willing to
accept bribes; such a man should be hissed, not applauded. He has
labeled himself. He has shown you where he belongs. But what can you
expect of a man whose bosom friend is the infamous Donatello, and whose
associates are among the leading radicals of this city? I tell you, Mr.
Chairman----”

But he got no further. The hisses of disapproval which greeted
his first sentences had now grown into a roar of protest. Halpert
McCormack, in spite of his economic vagaries, was respected by and
popular with his fellow guardsmen, and they would not listen to this
bitter denunciation of him. The room was in an uproar. A half dozen
men were loudly demanding recognition by the chair, a score of others
were protesting volubly against Barriscale’s ranting, while half as
many more were declaring that he was entirely justified in all that he
had said.

Then Captain Murray took the matter into his own hands. Those who
chanced to be looking at him saw his jaws close together with a snap,
and saw fire flash from his eyes. His gavel came down on the block with
a mighty crash, once, twice, and thrice.

“Order!” he shouted. “Every man in his seat at once!”

When, a few seconds later, the tumult was quelled, he continued:

“In view of what has just taken place here, and for the sake of harmony
in the ranks, I will myself decide what disposition shall be made of
Mr. Barriscale’s offer. As there is nothing else before the meeting I
will entertain a motion for adjournment.”

Corporal Manning made the motion, it was duly seconded, and the meeting
was adjourned. But the controversy was not thereby ended, nor was
Captain Murray’s task made easier. He debated the matter in his own
mind for twenty-four hours, and on the second day following the company
meeting he went to the office of Mr. Barriscale at the mills, and was
at once admitted into the big man’s presence. But before he could make
known his errand the mill-owner, apparently anticipating it, began:

“I have been expecting you, Captain. I think I know your errand.
Perhaps you will now agree with me that the proper way would have been
for you yourself to have accepted my gift on the start. It is very easy
for one or two malcontents to make serious trouble when a matter like
this is left to a popular vote.”

“I may have made a mistake, Mr. Barriscale,” replied the captain, “but
I feel that it would have been just as serious a mistake for me to have
decided the matter on the start. I feel that it will be an extremely
serious and delicate task for any one to decide the matter in the
present temper of the men of my company; and I have come to ask you to
relieve me from this embarrassing situation.”

“How can I relieve you, Captain?”

“By withdrawing your offer, or permitting it to be held in abeyance
until the storm blows over.”

Mr. Barriscale did not at once reply. Whether he was considering a
course of action, or whether he had already made up his mind, could not
be readily discovered. He knew of the incident at the company meeting.
His son had told him of it in great detail. He knew also of the
opposition that existed, both inside and outside the company, to the
acceptance of the gift. He himself felt that, under the circumstances,
it might be wise not to force the issue. To force it might easily
result in his further humiliation. To permit the matter to be held up,
as a favor to the company commander, could but redound to his credit.
His course of action was therefore plain.

“Captain Murray,” he said at last, and he spoke with great
impressiveness; “it is far from me to add to the problems which must
constantly perplex you, and I do not see how, in justice to you, I can
do otherwise than accede to your request. The matter may be held in
abeyance for an indefinite period.”

The captain gave a sigh of relief, and held out his hand in gratitude.

“But,” added Mr. Barriscale, clinging to his visitor’s hand, “I must
be permitted to express my surprise and dismay, that there should be
in your company young men so ignorant, so prejudiced, so saturated
with anti-government fallacies, as to oppose a gift like this from
me because I chance to have some wealth and to be at the head of a
prosperous corporation.”

The captain answered lightly:

“Oh, I don’t think we should take these young radicals seriously, Mr.
Barriscale. They make liberalism an outlet for intellectual exuberance.
They’ll all get over it in time. Besides, we have only a few of them in
the company anyway. Not enough to do us any harm.”

“That may be true, Captain; but you should not have one. Such men are a
menace to society, and distinctly dangerous in a military organization.
If we cannot depend on our organized militia in times of emergency,
then indeed we will be at the mercy of the mob. As one having the best
interests of the Guard at heart, permit me to urge that you rid your
company of such disturbing elements. Weed out every man of radical
tendencies without delay. I shall be more than happy to assist you in
such a task.”

Captain Murray thanked the mill-owner for his consideration and his
interest and withdrew. But the relief he had felt in having the issue
relating to the prize indefinitely postponed was now turned into a
feeling of anxiety concerning some of his best men. He knew that Mr.
Barriscale’s offer of assistance was no more nor less than a veiled
threat; and while Halpert McCormack’s name had not been mentioned in
the interview, there was no doubt that that young soldier would be made
to suffer for his temerity at the company meeting, so far as it lay in
the power of the millionaire manufacturer and his son to bring such
suffering about.




CHAPTER VII


It had been nearly two years since Halpert McCormack and Ben Barriscale
enlisted for service in the National Guard. They had one more year to
serve, yet neither of them had a thought of leaving the service when
the period of their enlistment expired. They had not only not tired of
the militiaman’s life with its duties and its tasks, they had found
pleasure and profit in it. For each of them, in a different way, it had
had its compensations and its satisfactions.

And each of them had merited and received promotion. First they
had been advanced to the grade of corporal. And when, by reason of
contemporaneous enlistment, the terms of the first and second sergeant
expired simultaneously, and it became known that they would not
reënlist, it was generally conceded that the two places would go to
McCormack and Barriscale. But which one of them he would make his first
sergeant was still a problem in the mind of Captain Murray. Both young
men were excellent soldiers. Both of them had mastered every detail
of company drill, and there were few movements, exercises or duties
for the enlisted man to perform with which both men were not entirely
familiar.

But the office of first sergeant is a most important one. A well-known
military authority has written:

    “It has been said the captain is the proprietor of the company,
    and the first sergeant is the foreman. Under supervision of
    the captain he has immediate charge of all routine matters
    pertaining to the company.”

Captain Murray knew that whichever one of the two men he selected he
would have an intelligent and efficient first sergeant. His hesitation
was due to the fact that he wished to avoid any appearance of
favoritism. Finally, remembering and following the still unfulfilled
purpose and plan of Benjamin Barriscale, Sr., he decided to award
the office as a prize to the man who should most successfully pass
an examination in military tactics. In order to be entirely fair the
test was thrown open to every enlisted man; and in order still further
to secure absolute justice in the matter, Captain Cowperthwaite from
Company M was called in to conduct the examination.

But, as every one knew would be the case, Corporals McCormack and
Barriscale were the only ones who took the test. It was unusually
thorough and severe, and was a combination of written, oral and
physical exercises. Three days after it was held Captain Cowperthwaite
made his report which was to the effect that Corporal Barriscale had
won out by three points, the score standing nine-five and ninety-eight.

The report was read to the company at the armory on the night of the
weekly drill. There was no demonstration from the ranks. The men
were at attention, and anything like a demonstration would have been
subversive of military discipline. Moreover, there was no enthusiasm
among the enlisted men over Barriscale’s success. Most of them liked
Hal better and would have been glad to see him capture the prize. But
they knew that Ben was a good soldier, would make an efficient orderly,
and had won his promotion fairly, so they were content.

Immediately following the reading of the report Captain Murray
announced the appointment of Corporal Barriscale to be first sergeant,
and Corporal McCormack to be second sergeant, and directed that
official warrants confirming these appointments be read accordingly.

When the company was dismissed Hal was the first to grasp the hand of
the new first sergeant and congratulate him on his appointment. And he
did it so frankly, with such good spirit and apparent sincerity, that
his conduct should have gone a long way toward closing the breach that
had opened between the two boys on the night of Chick’s rebuff, had
yawned wide on the night of the meeting called to decide the question
of acceptance of the prize offered by the senior Barriscale, and had
never since been completely bridged over. There had, indeed, been no
open hostility between them on account of these incidents. The matters
had not been mentioned by either of them since their occurrence. But
there was no companionship, no friendship. They were members of and
officers in the same militia company, they had such communication with
each other as their military duties required of them; that was all.

But both boys had grown, not only physically and mentally, but also
in their outlook on life. Young Barriscale was less autocratic and
arrogant, more approachable, more politic perhaps, yet he retained,
nevertheless, much of his aristocratic feeling. He still believed
that society was and should be divided into classes, and that while
it was the privilege of some to command, it was the duty of others to
obey. He approved of a democratic government indeed, provided it was
sufficiently strong to hold the masses in check, and for this purpose
its military arm should, in his opinion, be complete, invincible, and
at all times ready for use.

McCormack, on the other hand, was still peace-loving, and more of a
humanitarian than ever. He had always been a student and a dreamer,
and the more he read and pondered, the more he saw of actual social
conditions, the more thoroughly convinced he became that the salvation
of humanity for the future lay in that leveling process by which
the workers and the poor should be lifted to a higher social and
economic plane, and the millionaires and aristocrats brought down
to approximately the same level. Perhaps he was a socialist, he did
not quite know. At any rate, he was not a radical. He believed in a
democratic form of government, operated by virtue of its laws, and that
its laws should be enforced, even though it became necessary to use its
military arm in order to do so.

During the last two years he had seen much of Hugo Donatello. They had,
on many occasions, discussed with each other the economic problems
confronting the country and the world. But they could not quite reach
a common ground. As time passed Donatello, who had become practically
the leader of a group of organized radicals in the city, grew more
and more extreme in his views, and through the medium of his journal,
_The Disinherited_, advocated, every week, such direct action as would
make the “workers of the world,” without further delay, the masters of
its wealth and pleasures. Quiet in manner, dreamy-eyed, soft-voiced
except when aroused, persuasive in argument and eloquent in appeal, he
exerted an influence over Hal the true extent of which the boy did not
realize. The ideas of the young radical were so big, his humanitarian
instincts apparently so strong, his theory of internationalism,
as opposed to nationalism, leading to the ultimate and glorious
brotherhood of all men, was so pleasingly and convincingly put, that
it was difficult for this bank clerk, unschooled in the art of logic,
to detect the fallacies with which the argument abounded. Yet the boy
was not swept off his feet. By reason both of his ancestry and his
education he was firmly grounded in the principle of patriotism, and
he was not easily moved. His mind was receptive, it was not thoroughly
convinced.

But his friendship with Donatello and his association with other social
radicals in the city were commented on unfavorably in many quarters.
When the matter reached the ears of his aunt, Miss Sarah Halpert, she
brought him up with a round turn.

“What business have you, anyway,” she asked him, “to be associating
with that ordinary class of people? They’re not your kind. What have
you in common with them, I should like to know?”

“Well,” replied Hal, “they have hearts and brains and lungs and
stomachs just as I have. They get hot and cold and hungry and thirsty
just as I do. And whatever pleasant things there are in life they are
just as well fitted as I am to enjoy them. It seems to me that we have
a good deal in common.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” she ejaculated. “You know very well what I mean.
And you know you can’t afford to be linked up with such a fellow, for
instance, as this Donatello. Why, his paper is a disgrace to the city.
Did you read what he had in it last week again about the National
Guard?”

“Yes. He was rather severe on us.”

“Severe! It was positively scandalous! Why, his sheet ought to be
suppressed by the authorities, and he, himself, put in jail for a month
and fed on bread and water.”

“I’m afraid the fast-cure wouldn’t be a prophylactic for radicalism,
Aunt Sarah.”

“There you go with your big words again! But this is no joke, young
man. Bad company is bound to have its effect. The next thing you know
they’ll be putting you out of the National Guard.”

“Perhaps I’ll deserve it.”

“If you do deserve it, I hope to goodness they’ll do it! You just
go along now and behave yourself, and drop your socialistic and
anarchistic heresies, and shake your bad company, and be a soldier and
a gentleman.”

It was not long after this interview that Sergeant McCormack’s
qualities as a soldier and a gentleman were put severely to the test.
There was to be an exhibition drill on a certain evening, at the
armory, to which drill people of the city who were interested in the
military proficiency of the men of Company E were invited.

There is always something attractive about this handling of rifles by
an entire company, with its rhythmic movements, its click and clash,
its sudden and startling changes, and the picturesque way in which
it brings out the muscular alertness of the men. People were fond of
coming to see such exercises. Moreover, following the drill, there
were to be gymnastic contests, such as cane wrestling, pole pulling,
tug of war, etc. It had been the aim of Captain Murray to keep his men
interested by an appeal to their social and amusement-loving natures as
well as to their ambition to excel in military proficiency. This was
one reason why the company, as a whole, was always loyal and contented,
and why it was possible to keep the ranks full of excellent soldierly
material.

On this particular evening Sergeant McCormack, dressed in uniform, was
hurrying from his home to the armory. His mother and his sisters were
to go a little later in the car with his Aunt Sarah.

It so chanced that on the foot-walk of the Main Street Bridge, just
where he had met him and had his first interview with him two years
before, he met Hugo Donatello.

“I suppose,” said the young radical, half jocosely, “that you now go
for instruction of how to destroy the proletariat with the rifle,
including me, myself?”

“Well,” replied Hal, “so far as you are concerned, I don’t know but you
deserve to be destroyed, newspaper and all. That was a fierce article
you had in last week about the National Guard.”

“But was it not true, what I said?”

“No. The Guard is made up of right-minded men, trying to serve their
country and their State in the fairest possible way.”

“You do not yet know. No military is just or fair, nor can be. They are
under orders of politicians. Politicians are controlled by capitalists.
Capitalists conspire to crush workers. So there; what would you?”

He threw out his hands with a gesture which meant that there could be
no other conclusion.

“I haven’t got time to argue the matter with you to-night,” replied
Hal. “But I don’t like to have you talk about our men as though they
were a lot of thugs, nor our armory as though it were a nest of
conspirators against the liberty of working-men. By the way, were you
ever in our armory? Do you know what you’re talking about when you
write us down this way?”

“I have not had the pleasure to be ever in your armory, that is true.”

“Then come with me to-night and look us over for yourself.”

“I would not be welcome there.”

“I’ll answer for that. Come as my guest. It’s exhibition night.
There’ll be a lot of people there.”

Donatello hesitated for a moment before answering. Then, as though
suddenly making up his mind, he said:

“Very well. I will go. I am not too old, nor have I too much of the
prejudice to learn.”

First Sergeant Benjamin Barriscale, Jr., came into the drill-hall
that evening and cast his eyes over the large number of people seated
in rows of chairs against the side-walls of the armory, awaiting the
assembling of the company. He had already mastered every detail of the
duties of his new office. He felt that the men of the company respected
him accordingly, and that by reason of his soldierly qualities rather
than of any undue condescension on his part, he was becoming popular
with the rank and file. The privates, armed and equipped, lounging
about the hall or talking with friends at the side, saluted or spoke
to him as he passed by. His keen eye discovered Hal’s mother, as well
as Hal’s sisters and aunt, Miss Halpert, seated among the guests. He
wondered what particular accomplishment Sergeant McCormack expected to
exhibit that he had been vain enough to bring all the members of his
family to see. McCormack was still a source of discomfort to him. If
he could only humiliate him again in a legitimate way, as he had done
in the competition for appointments!

Then First Sergeant Barriscale discovered some one else, and this
discovery gave him a far greater shock than had the first one. He saw,
among the visitors, leaning unconcernedly back in his chair, Hugo
Donatello, socialist, radical, firebrand, slanderer of the government,
insulter of the flag, defamer of the National Guard.

As one of these epithets after another came into his mind his anger
rose. Ever since the incident at the flag-raising the fellow with his
vicious weekly journal had been a thorn in the young man’s flesh. Why
should such a person force his unwelcome presence on reputable citizens
and loyal soldiers in this manner? It was not only impudent, it was
insulting.

Without further thought or consideration he crossed the drill-hall and
confronted the objectionable visitor.

“You are Hugo Donatello, I believe?” he said.

The man looked up at him and answered quietly:

“That is my name, yes.”

“I must ask you to leave the armory. Your presence here is most
offensive.”

For a moment Donatello stared at the officer incredulously. He could
not quite believe that he had been ordered out.

“I came,” he said at last, “by the invitation of one, Mr. McCormack, a
member of your soldiery.”

The mention of Hal’s name only served to increase Barriscale’s wrath.
His face grew red and his voice rose.

“I don’t care how you came,” he replied. “I am in command here for the
present, and I order you to go.”

Then Donatello, realizing the situation, became, in his turn,
determined and angry.

“I am an American citizen,” he declared. “I pay the tax. This military
establishment, it is my money that helps to maintain it. I have the
right here. I will not go.”

“Then I shall have you ejected.”

“At your peril that will be. I give you fair warning.”

For a moment the situation was tense. People who were sitting near
by and heard the dialogue and saw the faces of the two angry men,
grew restless and apprehensive. Just what would happen no one could
conjecture.

But Sergeant Barriscale, without another word, turned on his heel,
strode back to the center of the hall and signaled to the drummer to
beat the assembly. Hardly had the last tap rolled from the end of the
drum-stick when the command was given to “Fall in!”

When the lines were properly formed and dressed, and the men brought
to a “Right shoulder arms!” Sergeant Barriscale began, from memory,
to call the company roll. As each man’s name was called he responded
distinctly: “Here!” and brought his piece smartly to an “order arms.”

At the end of the roll-call the captain and his lieutenants had not yet
come down from their quarters to the drill-hall. But while Barriscale
could not account for the delay he did not regret it. It left him still
in charge of the company. Facing the ranks he gave the command:

“Sergeant McCormack, step two paces to the front.”

Without knowing the purport of the order, the second sergeant,
accustomed to giving prompt obedience to all commands, passed around
the right of the line, down to the center, stepped two paces to the
front, halted and saluted his superior officer.

The first sergeant acknowledged the salute, then, with deliberate
emphasis, in a voice that could be heard the length of the hall, he
said:

“Sergeant McCormack, you will take a detail, consisting of one corporal
and two privates, and conduct to the street one, Hugo Donatello, whose
presence in this room is offensive to Company E and its guests.”

For a moment Hal stood motionless and speechless. He had seen and
known nothing of the brief interview between the first sergeant and
Donatello. When he realized the meaning and force of the command that
had been given to him, he was amazed and indignant. He brought his hand
up sharply in a second salute.

“Hugo Donatello,” he replied, “is my guest here this evening.”

The first sergeant did not move, nor did the expression on his
face change by so much as the lifting of an eyebrow. Again, more
deliberately, more emphatically than before, in a voice that could be
heard to the remotest corner of the drill-hall, he gave the command:

“Sergeant McCormack, you will take a detail, consisting of one corporal
and two privates, and conduct to the street one, Hugo Donatello, whose
presence in this room is an offense to Company E and its guests.”

For Halpert McCormack it was the most tense moment that his life
had thus far known. That the man whom he had brought as his guest
should be thus publicly humiliated; that he, himself, should be
deliberately chosen as the instrument by which such humiliation was
to be accomplished; it was monstrous and unbelievable. Against such
an outrage his whole nature cried out in revolt. For one moment, in a
larger sense than he dreamed of at the time, he stood at the parting of
the ways. Then the soldier within him prevailed. He made his decision.
He saluted his superior officer, faced about, chose a corporal and two
privates, ordered them to the front, and marched with them to the place
where Donatello was still sitting, a quizzical smile on his lips, a
dangerous light in his eyes.

In the audience there was the stillness of consternation. Women
crouched back into their seats and put their hands to their faces. A
few men rose to their feet and stared expectantly. No one could foresee
just what would happen.

Sergeant McCormack halted his squad in front of the offending visitor.

“I am directed,” he said, “by the officer in charge, to conduct you
from the hall.”

“And if I refuse to go?”

“I shall remove you by force.”

It was all spoken quietly, deliberately, with determination on the one
hand, with repressed indignation on the other. For a moment the young
radical looked into the eyes of the young soldier. What he saw there
evidently determined him in his course.

“So far that you are soldier,” he said, “I defy you. So far that you
are gentleman, whom I respect, I yield myself to your wish that I go.”

He rose, took his place by the side of the sergeant, and, followed by
the detail, they moved down the hall to the big street doors from which
Donatello disappeared into the darkness. Then the squad returned to
the line, the second sergeant directed his men to their places in the
ranks, and, facing his superior officer he saluted and reported:

“Your orders have been obeyed, sir.”

The first sergeant returned the salute and responded concisely:

“Take your post!”




CHAPTER VIII


The audience in the armory at Fairweather on the evening of Donatello’s
visit and expulsion had been treated to something more, and something
of vastly greater moment, than a mere exhibition drill. They had not
appreciated it at first, and while it was going on their attention
had been too greatly strained to fully take it in. But when Sergeant
McCormack reported the fulfilment of his orders, and started around
the right of the line to take his post, it dawned on the people who
had seen the incident that an exhibition of American military spirit
had been witnessed, the spirit of the soldier as distinct from that
of the civilian, that it would have been worth going far to see.
Simultaneously, from all quarters of the hall, people began to applaud.
The applause grew more vigorous and was punctured with loud hurrahs.
Men and women rose to their feet and waved hands and handkerchiefs.
Sarah Halpert mounted the chair in which she had been sitting, stood on
it, and clapped her gloved hands until they burned.

First Sergeant Barriscale bowed to right and left. He naturally
assumed that it was all a tribute to the prompt and vigorous action
taken by him in ridding the room of an undesirable guest. Then some
one yelled: “Three cheers for Sergeant McCormack!” and it occurred to
Barriscale that the audience might also be expressing its appreciation
of the splendid sense of military discipline, exhibited under the most
severely trying circumstances, by the second sergeant.

In the midst of the applause and shouting, Captain Murray entered with
his lieutenants, and the command was turned over to him. But he did
not learn, until after the drill was over and the company had been
dismissed, what had caused the commotion prior to his entrance. When he
did find out what had happened he crossed the hall to where Sergeant
McCormack stood talking with his mother and his aunt, and gave the
boy’s hand a mighty grip.

“I’m proud of you!” he said. “That was splendid! You’re an ideal
soldier!”

Whereupon Sarah Halpert, quite unable to restrain her enthusiasm, threw
her arms around the neck of the second sergeant, and, much to his
embarrassment, kissed him on both cheeks.

The next day the occurrence at the armory the night before was the talk
of the town. The newspapers took the matter up and exploited it from
one end of the State to the other. Sergeant Barriscale was commended
for his prompt and vigorous action in ridding the armory of an avowed
enemy to the government, while Sergeant McCormack received due credit
for his soldierly obedience, under most embarrassing circumstances.
But Sergeant McCormack’s anger at the humiliation that had been put
upon him was not appeased by any commendation of his soldierly conduct.
Slow to wrath as he had always been, he was now thoroughly aroused
and intensely indignant. If he could have withdrawn from the company
and so severed the only relations between him and Barriscale, he
would have done so at once. But it is not within the province of an
enlisted man to resign, and he had no legitimate excuse for applying
for a discharge, so nothing happened. But the breach that had opened
narrowly between the two boys at the time of the flag-raising, and
that had broadened dangerously on the night Chick was ordered from the
stack-room, and had yawned wide, deep and impassable, since the night
of the company meeting, was apparently never to be closed.

Hal was still employed at the Citizens’ Bank. He had been promoted
from one position to another until he had come now to be regarded as
one of the most trusted and skilful employees of that institution.
Only one shadow rested on his standing there, and that was cast by
his open espousal of the cause of the discontented in society, and
his association with the more radical elements in the city. He had
not been accused of planning the destruction of the existing social
order, nor of advocating the confiscation of the property of the
rich. He was a student and a dreamer rather than a militant reformer.
But his well-known attitude was bound to cast upon him the shadow of
suspicion; and since the occurrence of the incident at the armory, and
its wide exploitation, the shadow had deepened into a cloud, and more
than one whispered accusation went forth against him, of disloyalty
to the forces that had made this country great and prosperous, and of
indifference to the flag which was a symbol of power and progress, and
so regarded the world over.

Moreover, for nearly a year, Europe had been weltering in the bloodiest
war of history. No one could tell how soon the red waves of it would
break on the shores of the United States. It was a time when absolute
loyalty was expected and demanded from every man who had the welfare
of his country and of his fellow-citizens at heart. Had it not been
that McCormack’s social heresies were leavened to an appreciable extent
by his apparent devotion to the National Guard, he would doubtless
have found himself criticized more severely, and ostracized more
effectually, than he had thus far been.

Yet, as it developed, his military connection was not sufficient fully
to protect him. If he had been put to a test as a soldier, and had met
it bravely and successfully, he was now to be put to a still greater
test as a civilian.

It was about two weeks after the armory incident that Hal stood one day
in the receiving teller’s cage at the bank, at the noon hour, relieving
the teller, who had gone to luncheon. He saw the senior Barriscale
enter the lobby and pass back to the president’s room. He thought
nothing of it, as Mr. Barriscale was one of the directors of the bank
and was frequently in to consult with the officers. But, ten minutes
later, Mr. Winton, the president, crossed the counting-room to the
teller’s cage, and spoke to Hal.

“McCormack,” he said, “will you please come into my room for a few
minutes? Mr. Hanes will relieve you at the counter.”

As they walked back together the president continued:

“Mr. Barriscale, who, as you know, is one of our directors, has called
my attention to a matter which seriously concerns you. I believe the
better way is for you to take it up with him in person. That is the
reason I have called you.”

Hal knew, instinctively, the nature of Mr. Barriscale’s errand, and he
knew that he had reached another crisis in his career. But, neither by
word nor look, did he exhibit any apprehension.

In the president’s room, in a chair by the table, the millionaire
manufacturer was sitting. Big-bodied, square-jawed, with heavy
moustache and closely cropped beard, he looked the determined and
aggressive man that he was. He nodded as Hal entered the room, but he
made no other sign, and gave no word, of recognition.

The president opened the conversation by saying:

“Mr. Barriscale desires to speak to you on a matter which he believes
to be of considerable importance both to you and to the bank.”

The manufacturer, accustomed to efficiency in business methods, went at
once to the heart of his errand.

“I am credibly informed,” he said, turning to the young man, “that you
associate with a group of radicals in this community whose purposes
and plans are entirely subversive of law and order. That you not
only associate with them but that you sympathize with many of their
aims, and assist, to an appreciable extent, in the spreading of their
propaganda. It is hardly necessary for me to say that such activities
are wholly inconsistent with your position in this bank. From what I
hear, your attitude has already cost the bank something in the way
of reputation for soundness and conservatism. I have said to Mr.
Winton that you should be compelled at once to do one of two things,
either cut loose absolutely from the associations and beliefs I have
mentioned, or else give up your position in the bank.”

He had stated his case clearly, concisely and positively. The statement
called for an equally clear, concise and positive answer, and that Hal
knew he could not give. But he was not minded to yield without at least
an attempt at justification.

“I have friends in the city,” he replied, “among all classes of people,
holding all kinds of beliefs. For myself, I am neither a conservative
nor a radical; I have an open mind. I am looking for that which is
best for my country and for her humblest as well as her most prominent
citizens. I have tried to fulfil my duty to this bank in every way.
If my associations or conduct have brought discredit on it in the
slightest degree I am extremely sorry.”

“I have no doubt of it, young man; but you are evading the issue. I
am not charging you with robbing the bank, but with maintaining evil
associations. It is that that is hurting us. For instance, you brought
to the armory a few evenings ago, as your guest, a notorious firebrand,
an enemy to this government, a defamer of the National Guard. I am
proud of my son that he should have had him put into the street. But
the fact has been spread broadcast that it was one of our employees who
took the fellow there, and it has done the bank no good, Mr. Winton, no
good.”

He turned toward the president, and emphasized his conviction by
bringing his hand down forcibly on the arm of his chair.

“It certainly was an unfortunate occurrence,” replied the president. “I
cannot believe that McCormack realized that it might be injurious to us
or he would not have been so injudicious.”

“That’s the point exactly,” replied the manufacturer. “An employee
who shows so little judgment in the choosing of his associates as
this young man has shown, and so little discretion in his speech and
conduct, is a constant menace to any financial institution. That is
why,” turning again toward Hal, “I have recommended to Mr. Winton that
we get rid of you.”

Get rid of him! Just as though he were a balky horse or a biting dog.
Resentment flashed up in Hal’s breast. He turned sharply on his critic.

“You don’t have to get rid of me, Mr. Barriscale,” he replied. “When
the bank wishes me to leave I will go. In the meantime I reserve to
myself the right to choose my friends and associates.”

Mr. Barriscale turned again toward the president with a shrug of his
shoulders and a significant wave of his hand, as if to say “I told you
so,” but he said nothing. Mr. Winton was the next to speak.

“I am sorry you assume this attitude, McCormack,” he said. “We like you
here. Your work is excellent. We want to keep you. But I am afraid we
can do so only on the condition laid down by Mr. Barriscale. You must
either give up your associates or your position.”

Hal looked from one to the other of the men and was silent. Across his
mind flashed the oft-repeated declaration of Donatello that under the
present social system not only business and trade, but the welfare, the
happiness, the very lives of the vast majority of men were absolutely
under the control of the money power centered in the few. Here was Mr.
Barriscale, the heaviest stockholder of the bank, the most influential
director, at the head of a corporation the daily balance of which at
the bank was five times that of any other depositor, able, by reason
of his money interest alone, to dictate the policy of the institution,
even to the matter of the employment and discharge of its clerks; the
very president himself being obliged to follow humbly in his wake.
Hal’s indignation rose with his resentment. He knew that Mr. Barriscale
had decided to force him out, and that it would be useless now for him
to argue or protest. He even doubted whether an unconditional surrender
on his part would result in more than a temporary truce. He felt that
he might as well meet the issue squarely.

“Very well, Mr. Winton,” he said quietly, “since Mr. Barriscale’s voice
here is the controlling one, and since it is his wish that I shall go,
there is nothing for me to do but comply with it. I am not ashamed of
my beliefs or associations and I must decline to give up any of them.”

Mr. Barriscale rose to his feet.

“That settles it!” he exclaimed. “I presume the young man will go at
once, Mr. Winton.”

“I will go to-day, Mr. Barriscale,” responded Hal.

[Illustration: “I WILL GO TO-DAY, MR. BARRISCALE,” RESPONDED HAL]

But the president began to protest.

“Oh, not to-day, McCormack. I don’t think there is any such haste as
that. I don’t think Mr. Barriscale means that you shall go to-day.”

The manufacturer brought the palm of his hand down heavily on the table.

“That is exactly what I mean, Mr. Winton,” he replied; “to-day. We
can’t afford to harbor him for a moment longer than we have to. It
would be an injustice to our stockholders and depositors.”

To this outburst Hal made no reply. He turned to the president and held
out his hand.

“I am grateful to you, Mr. Winton,” he said, “for all the help and
encouragement you have given me, and all the patience and kindness you
have shown to me since I have been here. Good-bye!”

Amazed, chagrined, and shocked by the suddenness of it all, the
president was unable to speak, but he held fast to the boy’s hand with
such a grip that Hal was obliged forcibly to withdraw it. When he had
done this he bowed formally in the direction of the manufacturer, and
turned and left the room. He stopped at the locker to get his hat and
one or two of his personal belongings, and then went down the aisle and
across the lobby to the big street door. As he passed the cashier’s
room that official saw him through the plate-glass window and called to
him:

“Oh, McCormack, are you going to lunch? I wish you’d take these letters
up to the post-office for me. John is out, and I’m anxious to get them
off on the 12:40.”

“With pleasure, Mr. Haldeman.”

Hal reached his hand through the wicket, took the letters, and passed
out into the street.

So, then, he had lost his job. It was an occupation of which he had
grown fond, and in which he had become skilful. His two years of bank
training would now go for naught. For it was not to be supposed that
after his dismissal from one bank he would easily find employment in
another. He must seek work now that would be less to his taste. When he
went home and told his mother about it she wept for an hour. She did
not blame him. She had implicit faith in his honesty and judgment, and
she never questioned his beliefs. But when his Aunt Sarah Halpert heard
of it she was beside herself. She sent for Hal to come to her house at
once.

“Not but what you’ve got what you deserved to get,” she told him,
“but it was all so absurdly unnecessary. I’ve no love for the elder
Barriscale; you know that. And I’ve no doubt he took malicious delight
in throwing you into the street; but he was dead right in declaring
that the bank couldn’t afford to keep you. I’ve no sympathy for you;
none whatever. Now go find a job somewhere and stick to it, and behave
yourself. Hal,” she said, after she had stormed at him to her heart’s
content, “if you need a little money, or a little help of any kind
while you’re looking around, just come to your Aunt Sarah.” And when
she kissed him good-night there were tears in her eyes, and there was
fondness in her voice.

It was not many days before Hal found new employment as an accountant
in a large wholesale house in the city. It was not so congenial a
task as his old one. The salary was larger, it is true, but the
hours were longer, the work more strenuous, the environment not so
refined and agreeable. However, so long as he paid strict attention
to business, his new employers were not concerned about his beliefs
or his personal associations. Indeed, in spite of his own bitter
experience, he continued to be on friendly terms with Donatello and his
group of reformers and internationalists. The young radical had laid
up nothing against Sergeant McCormack on account of his expulsion from
the armory on a certain night, but he did not cease to denounce, with
ever increasing bitterness, a civil and military system under which
such an outrage, as he termed it, was possible. When Hal was forced
from his position at the bank, Donatello’s indignation knew no bounds.
He declared that the boy was being crucified for his beliefs, at the
hands of privilege, and that the incident was but another argument
to prove that the money power and the capitalistic system the world
over should be overthrown and abolished. And slowly, insidiously,
but nevertheless effectually, under the tutelage of Donatello, the
poison of radicalism, of internationalism as opposed to patriotism, of
syndicalism as distinct from democracy, seeped into the boy’s mind and
colored his thought and his purpose. His connection with the National
Guard in these days was indeed the only anchor which held him safely to
his moorings as a loyal citizen of a great republic. And even at this
anchorage he chafed, and from it would willingly have been free.

One afternoon, in the street, as he turned a corner near his place
of business, he ran into Joe Brownell, second lieutenant of Company
E. Brownell had been his friend since the day of his enlistment in
the Guard, and, so far as a commissioned officer could do so without
exhibiting partiality, he had been his supporter and adviser.

“I was just hunting you up, Hal,” he said; “there’s news. Lieutenant
Morosco is going to resign.”

“Indeed!” was the reply. “How is that?”

“Well, you know the Sturtevant people that he’s been with so long have
transferred him to the New York office. He goes east next week. That
leaves a vacancy in the first lieutenancy.”

“Then you’ll go up; and Barriscale will get shoulder straps?”

“That’s just the point. That’s a programme I don’t like.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, there are reasons. One is that I don’t want the place. I’m not
fitted for it, and I know it. The boys like me too well and I’ve no
more sense of discipline than a ground-hog. If I ever had to command
the company I’d collapse. Another reason is that--well, there’s a
pretty congenial crowd in officers’ quarters now; I’d like to keep it
congenial.”

“You mean that Barriscale wouldn’t be quite acceptable there?”

“To be frank with you, that’s it exactly.”

“But how are you going to help it? If you keep the second lieutenancy,
Barriscale will get the first.”

“Not if I can prevent it, he won’t.”

“How will you prevent it? He’ll be entitled to the promotion.”

“I propose to have you stand for election to the first lieutenancy.”

“Me!”

“Yes, you. It’s a matter of company election, you know; the boys would
be glad to put you in, and it would be entirely satisfactory up above;
I know what I’m talking about.”

“But, Joe, I couldn’t jump two grades. It wouldn’t be fair. Besides,
after what happened at the armory, and at the bank, and after all the
comment that’s been stirred up about me, it would never do for me to
aspire to a commission. It’s my place to crawl into my shell and stay
there till my time’s out.”

“Nonsense! There are only two men in this town who would hate to see
you get a commission.”

“You might as well make it three, Joe. I would hate to see myself
get it. With my views on social and economic problems and the proper
functions of government, I’ve no business in the Guard anyway. I’ve no
right to be a sergeant, much less to get a commission. The whole thing
is entirely out of the question. So drop it, Joe. I appreciate your
friendship and good intentions; but--drop it.”

“Drop nothing! No one has ever criticized your conduct as a soldier.
It’s beyond criticism. And as for Ben Barriscale, you owe him nothing
and you know it. I’ve kept my mouth shut through everything. It was my
place to. But now, with no one but you to hear me, I’ve got to have my
fling. I think that stunt of Barriscale’s at the armory that night,
while doubtless within the rules, was the most contemptible thing I
ever heard of. And, if I’m rightly informed, even that was outclassed
by his father’s treatment of you at the bank. The whole thing gets
my----”

Hal interrupted him impatiently. “Joe,” he said, “in a situation like
this there’s no room for resentments. But you’re a loyal friend of
mine and I’ll be fair with you. I’ll consider your proposition, and
I’ll let you know to-morrow what I’ve decided to do.”

The next day, at noon, when the two men came together, Sergeant
McCormack said:

“I’ve thought it all over, and I’ve decided not to stand for the
election.”




CHAPTER IX


It did not take long for the news of Morosco’s contemplated resignation
to filter through the rank and file of Company E. And every one
assumed, as McCormack had done, that Brownell would go up, and that
Barriscale would get a commission. There was no excitement concerning
it, and little discussion. The second lieutenant was popular, and the
enlisted men of the company were pleased with the contemplation of his
prospective advancement. But Barriscale had not yet touched the popular
heart, and, although no one criticized his qualities as a soldier or
his efficiency as an orderly sergeant, at the same time no one became
enthusiastic over the idea of his promotion. There was no outspoken
opposition to his advancement among the men in the ranks; but one
hanger-on of the company was not pleased with the outlook and did not
hesitate to give expression to his thought. This was Chick Dalloway.
He had never forgotten the night in the stack-room when both he and
McCormack had suffered from young Barriscale’s abuse. He had not yet
ceased to ridicule the elder Barriscale’s proposition to establish
a fund for a prize, nor had he yet condoned the offense of which he
believed the millionaire to be guilty in connection with Hal’s loss
of his position at the bank. Moreover, his heart still burned with
resentment whenever he thought of the indignity that had been placed
upon his friend and mentor on the evening of Donatello’s ejectment from
the armory.

It was, therefore, in no pleasant mood that on the night when the news
of Morosco’s contemplated resignation first reached his ears, he walked
down the street toward the place he called his home.

It was after drill; he had been at the armory; and ahead of him was a
group of a half-dozen members of the company dressed in uniform, going
in the same direction with him. They appeared to be in high spirits,
they were talking and laughing freely, and, as they marched along, they
began to sing one of the war songs made popular by the British troops
on the western front.

For some reason, which he did not stop to dissect, their gayety seemed
to jar on Chick’s particular mood, and he decided to change his course
at the next corner, and lengthen his journey home by the distance of a
block.

But, as he turned eastward, he discovered, lying in front of him on the
pavement, in the full light of the electric street lamp, what appeared
to be a letter. He picked it up and examined it. It was an unsealed and
unstamped envelope, bearing on its face only the word “Miss.” Evidently
the writer had been interrupted in his task of addressing the letter,
and had laid it aside, intending to add other words later; or else,
having got that far toward identifying the intended recipient of the
missive, he had, for some unknown reason, changed his mind. The one
preliminary word, however, was in a man’s hand, and the envelope was
not empty.

When Chick had made out what it was that he had picked up, it occurred
to him that one of the singing boys ahead of him might have dropped it.
He hurried to catch up with them, and called, but, in their exuberance
of jollity, they failed to hear him.

It was not until he was almost in touch with them that his voice
reached their ears.

“Say,” he cried, “did any of you fellows drop anything?”

They suspended their musical efforts for the moment, stopped and faced
him.

“Did we what?” asked one of them.

“Drop anything? let anything fall? lose anything out o’ your pockets?”

“What are you giving us, Chick? Is this one of your practical jokes?”

“Honest to goodness, no!” declared Chick. “I thought one o’ you might
’a’ dropped something; say like a--a pocketbook, or something like
that.”

“Have we, boys? Has any one lost a pocketbook?”

The speaker faced his companions, each one of whom made immediate
search of his pockets. Then, practically in unison, they declared that
nothing of the kind had been lost.

“Why?” asked another one in the group. “Have you found a pocketbook?”

“No,” replied Chick truthfully, “I ain’t.”

“Then what in Sam Hill are you holding us up for, and scrapping the
finest music that ever came from human throats?”

“Oh,” replied Chick, “I just wanted to know, that’s all. If they ain’t
none o’ you lost nothin’, w’y then o’ course I ain’t found it.”

“Boys,” said a third one of the company, “are we going to stand for a
thing like this? This levity at our expense must cease. He’s a Hun.
What shall we do with him?”

“Give him the g. b. in a blanket on the armory lawn next drill night.
All in favor say aye!”

There was a chorus of ayes.

“Forward, march! Hip! hip! hip!”

The ranks were reformed and the fun-loving young fellows marched on.

Chick smiled. He knew that these boys were fond of him, and would
sooner have suffered torture than have done him any harm. But he
congratulated himself on his diplomacy. He knew that if he had told
them that it was a letter he had found they would have insisted upon
seeing it, perhaps upon reading it, since the envelope was unsealed.
And some deep sense of chivalry warned the boy that a letter addressed
to “Miss,” whoever she might be, was not intended for the public eye.

But what should he, himself, do with it? He drew it from the pocket
in which, by way of precaution, he had placed it, and again examined
the brief superscription. He noticed now, also, that the envelope was
soiled and marked by the trampling of feet. Evidently some one had
dropped it on the pavement before the boys had come along, and they,
not seeing it, had trodden on it. He looked up and down the quiet
street, but no one was in sight save the disappearing group of young
men in khaki who had already resumed their singing. It was obvious
that he could not stand there and ask occasional passers-by if any one
of them had lost a letter. It was just as obvious that it would be
useless to carry it to the post-office, the police station or the drug
store, and worse than useless to throw it back into the street. There
was really but one reasonable thing to do with it, for the present at
any rate, and that was to take it home with him. So he took it home.
In the privacy of his little attic room, by the dim light of a small,
smoky, oil lamp, he examined it once more. It occurred to him that by
looking at the contents of the letter the name of the person to whom
it belonged would be disclosed. So he slipped the folded sheet out of
the envelope, but he still hesitated to read what was written there.
It seemed to him that he was intruding upon some one’s privacy, and,
notwithstanding his lack of training and his crude environment, Chick
was at heart a gentleman. He studied over the matter for many minutes
before he finally decided that the purpose he had in view justified the
apparent intrusion into some one’s personal affairs. But when he had
once cleared his mind of doubt he hesitated no longer. He unfolded the
sheet and slowly and with difficulty, for he was no scholar, he picked
out the words and sentences.

The letter was as follows:

    “MY DEAR RACHAEL:

    “I am going to ask you in writing something that I haven’t
    dared to ask you in person. I am going to ask you if you will
    marry me. It goes without saying that I am in love with you
    or I wouldn’t ask you. We have been going together for about
    six months, and you don’t seem to have got tired of me, so
    I am plucking up courage to ask you. You know I have a good
    position at the Barriscale works, and I guess you understand
    I’m a pretty decent fellow. The only thing in the way is that
    if this country gets into war I will likely have to go over
    there with Company E and fight. But I don’t mind that if you
    don’t. You know I’m a corporal now, but there’s a good chance
    of my being promoted to be a sergeant, because there’s going to
    be a vacancy soon, and I’m as likely to get the appointment as
    anybody.

    “Dear Rachael, I hope you love me and that you will answer this
    very soon and tell me you will marry me.

    “Yours with much love,
    ALFRED.

    “P. S.--I never loved any other girl as much as I love you.

    “A.”

Well, it was a love-letter; a real, genuine love-letter. Chick had
never seen one before. He had only heard of them and wondered about
them. And, being a love-letter, it was, of course, a thousand times
more important that he should keep secret the contents, than though it
had been a mere business letter. But who was Rachael to whom the letter
had been written? and, more especially, who was Alfred, who had written
it? He was a corporal in Company E. That fact, of course, went a long
way toward his identification, but it was not sufficient to make the
identification complete. There were five corporals in Company E, and if
any one of them bore the name of Alfred, Chick did not know it.

It had become very plain to him, however, that he must find the person
who had written this letter, and deliver it up to him. That would
be simply a gentleman’s duty. In the meantime the missive would be
secreted in an inner pocket of his waistcoat where no human eye would
have an opportunity to gaze on it.

Before he turned out his light and got into bed Chick formulated his
plan of action.

The next day he called at the office of Captain Murray.

“Do you happen to have,” he asked him, “any list of the co’porals in
Company E?”

“Not here, Chick,” was the reply. “My roster is at the armory. I can
tell who they are, though.”

“First names an’ all?”

“Hardly that. I only know them by their last names. Why?”

“Oh, I just kind o’ thought I’d like to know; that’s all. I--I might
want to ask one of ’em for a job.”

“I see. Well, you go to Orderly Sergeant Barriscale. He’ll have a list
and he’ll give you their full names.”

“No, I wouldn’t ask him. I don’t want to be under no obligation to him.
I’ll find out some way.”

And Chick did find out. It was a slow and laborious process. But by
consulting the city directory, by asking personal friends of the
corporals, by many a roundabout way, he was in possession, before
nightfall, of the desired information.

And then he ran up against another difficulty. There were two Alfreds
in the list; both of them young, unmarried fellows, liable to have
sweethearts. He decided to take the bull by the horns and interview
each of them in turn. He found Alfred Griffin at his place of
employment, a big wholesale house in the lower end of the city. He was
shipping clerk there. His coat was off, his sleeves were rolled up, and
he was busy as a bee checking up half a roomful of barrels, boxes and
bales ready to be sent out to customers.

As Chick made his way across the room between piles of merchandise,
Griffin saw him coming and greeted him cheerily.

“Hello, Chick!” he said. “What’s the best word to-day?”

“The word o’ hope,” replied Chick. “You feelin’ perty good to-day,
yourself?”

“Fine!”

“Ain’t disappointed about nothin’?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

Chick didn’t answer the question. He looked around cautiously to make
sure that no one else was within hearing, then he asked suddenly:

“Say, do you know a girl by the name o’ Rachael?”

“Do I know a girl by the name of Rachael?”

“That’s what I ast you.”

“Sure I do! Look here, boy, what have you got up your sleeve?”

“Nothin’ much. Did you ever love any other girl as much as you love
her?”

Alfred Griffin flung his checking book down on top of a barrel and
stared at Chick in utter astonishment.

“Well, for the love of Pete!” he exclaimed. “What is it to you whether
I love her at all or not?”

Chick was not in the least disconcerted at this outburst.

“Oh, it ain’t much to me,” he answered coolly. “I jest thought I’d
inquire whether you ever ast her to marry you.”

This was too much for Alfred bearing the surname of Griffin. He burst
into a hearty laugh.

“Chick,” he said when he caught his breath, “you’re the limit. I
haven’t the ghost of an idea what you’re driving at; but let me tell
you, confidentially, that I think you’ve got the wrong pig by the ear.
The fellow you want to investigate is Corporal Fred Lewis. He’s got a
girl by the name of Rachael, and I know her. And any day he wants to
yield up his claim on her, whatever it is, I’ll be glad to drop into
his shoes. Do you get me? Now, is that what you want to know?”

“W’y, I heard one o’ you fellows had a girl by the name o’ Rachael, and
I didn’t know which one it was.”

“Well, what did you want to know for?”

“I’ll tell you. You see, I’m lookin’ for a job. Not a stiddy all day
job, you un’erstand; jest pickin’ up around mornin’s. An’ I didn’t know
but what her folks might want such a man. And ef they did, I might git
a recommend from whichever one o’ you fellows is sparkin’ the girl.
See?”

Alfred, surnamed Griffin, looked at him for a moment quizzically.

“Chick,” he said at last, “you’re the most wonderful prevaricator that
has happened since the days of Ananias. I don’t know _why_ you’re
lying to me like that; I only know you _are_. Now you go and hunt up
Fred Lewis if you want to, and you pull this stuff on him, and see what
you get. But don’t tell him I told you about Rachael. My life wouldn’t
be worth a penny whistle if you did. He’s mighty sensitive about that
girl.”

Chick was grinning broadly. He did not resent the charge made against
him. He knew that his accuser was in the best of humor. He had the
information he wanted, and he turned to go.

“All right!” he said. “Much obleeged to you. No hard feelin’s. I’ll do
as much for you some time. Fred Lewis works down to the Barriscale,
don’t he?”

“Yes; you’ll find him there in the assembling department. He’s got a
good job. If he wants to marry Rachael he can afford to.”

“Sure! I won’t tell him you said so, though. He can’t pick nothin’ out
o’ me.”

“That’s the talk! Good luck to you! Go to it!”

He waved his hand gayly as the boy clumped out of the wareroom.

Chick went on down the street toward the Barriscale plant, but he did not
enter it. It was within a quarter of an hour of quitting time anyway;
so he hung around in the neighborhood until the men came out, hundreds
of them, and, separating into groups, entered the four streets that
converged upon the plaza fronting the mills. His quick eye detected
young Lewis in the crowd, in company with a fellow employee, and,
walking a few rods in the rear, he trailed along after them.

It was not until half a dozen or more blocks had been covered that
the two young men separated, and the one whom Chick sought went on
alone. He walked rapidly and it was no light task for the boy with the
physical handicap to overtake him. But he did overtake him eventually,
and, half out of breath, shuffled along beside him.

The young man, seeing who his companion was, made no show, either of
pleasure or displeasure. He looked anxious and worried, as though his
mind was absorbed in the thought of some impending misfortune.

“Oh, is that you, Chick?” he said quietly. “Going my way?”

“Yes, for a block or two,” wheezed the boy. “Thought you might like to
have company.”

“Sure! Come along! Am I walking a little too fast for you?”

“Oh, I guess I can keep up all right.”

But the young man slowed down in his gait, nevertheless, and made it
easier for the boy to keep alongside.

For a little while after that neither of them spoke, Chick because he
had not yet recovered sufficient breath, and Lewis because he was not
in the mood for talking.

It was Chick who at last broke the silence.

“Lemme see!” said he, “your name’s Alfred, ain’t it? They call you
Fred; but your right name’s Alfred, ain’t it?”

“Yes. Why?”

The young man seemed to evince little curiosity, and to ask the
question more as a matter of form than because of a desire to seek
information.

“Oh, nothin’ much,” replied Chick. “Only, if you was, now, writin’ a
letter, say to a girl, you’d sign your name Alfred, I s’pose?”

Young Lewis awakened out of his apparent lethargy and glanced down
curiously at the boy who was, with some effort, keeping up with him.

“Why, I suppose so,” he said. “What do you want to know for?”

Chick did not reply to the question, but, after a habit he had, he
asked another one instead.

“And if you was writin’ to any girl, you’d most likely be writin’ to a
girl name o’ Rachael, I s’pose?”

The young fellow stopped suddenly, faced sharply toward the boy, and
laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Look here, Chick!” he exclaimed; “have you found anything?”

“Me? Found anything?” repeated Chick, in apparent surprise.

“Yes; a letter, or anything like that?”

“Why, have you lost one?”

“Chick! Don’t keep me in suspense! If you’ve found my letter, tell me.
I’ve worried myself pretty nearly into my grave over it, already.”

“I ast you, have you lost a letter?” Chick was very resolute and
determined.

“Yes,” was the equally resolute reply, “I’ve lost one. Have you found
it?”

They were standing on a quiet street corner, scarcely a block away from
the Lewis home. One or two men passed by and spoke to them, but the
greetings went unheeded.

“I’ve found a letter,” said Chick; “but how do I know whether it’s
yourn or not? Who was it to?”

The young fellow swallowed awkwardly before replying, and grew red
in the face. His first impulse was to resent the question as an
unwarranted intrusion into his private affairs. But, on second thought,
he knew that such an attitude on his part, especially toward Chick,
would be extremely poor policy.

“Why,” he exclaimed finally, “it was to a girl by the name of Rachael,
and it was signed ‘Alfred.’”

“That’s all right so far,” assented Chick. “But they’s lots o’ Rachaels
in the U. S., and the world’s full of Alfreds. Tell me what was in it.”

“Oh, now, look here, Chick! That’s not necessary. Surely I’ve
identified the letter sufficiently, and I’m entitled to have it.”

But Chick was obdurate. “No,” he said, “a man can’t be too careful
about love-letters. If this here letter should git into the hands o’
the wrong party my goose would be cooked. You got to tell me what was
in the letter ’fore I give it up.”

Alfred Lewis looked up the street, then down the street, and then at
Chick.

“Well,” he said finally, “I asked Rachael to marry me.”

“That’s right!” assented the boy. “You sure did. Now, was they any p.
s. on the end, or wasn’t they?”

“I believe there was.”

“What was in it?”

“Look here, Chick! Confound you! you’re getting too blamed inquisitive.”

But Chick straightened up as far as his deformed shoulders would
permit, and thrust his hands determinedly into his pockets.

“I got to know,” he said.

There was apparently no escape, and the young lover, with scarlet face
and stammering tongue, blurted out:

“Why, I told her I never loved any other girl as much as I did her.
Does that satisfy you?”

Chick did not answer the question. Instead, he thrust one hand deeper
into his pocket, drew forth the precious missive and handed it to the
writer thereof, who, having glanced at it exteriorly and interiorly,
gave a great sigh of relief. Then followed a shower of questions as
to when, where and how the letter had been found, to all of which
Chick not only gave complete and satisfactory answers, but he also
entertained his listener with a full account of his own Sherlock
Holmesian efforts in running down the writer.

At the conclusion of the narration young Lewis grasped the boy’s hand.

“Chick,” he declared, “you’ve saved my life. What if the other fellows
had got onto it! They’d have made the town too hot to hold me. That job
was worth money, Chick; yes, it was worth money.”

He thrust his hand into his pocket as he spoke, drew forth a purse,
extracted therefrom a bill with a green back, and held it out to the
boy. But Chick waved aside the gift disdainfully.

“No,” he said, “you can’t pay me nothin’. That was jest a friendly job.
But some day, when I git to be a member o’ the comp’ny, I might want a
favor; see? Then I’ll ast you.”

The owner of the restored love-letter again grasped the boy’s hand.

“Chick,” he said warmly, “whenever you want any favor that I can do for
you, no matter what it is, you come to me and tell me, and I’ll do it
if it takes a leg! Do you understand?”

“I un’erstand.”




CHAPTER X


Three days after Hal’s interview with Brownell, First Lieutenant
Morosco sent in his resignation, it was promptly accepted, he was
duly and honorably discharged, and he left the service of the Guard.
In due time an order came down from the Governor, through his
Adjutant-General, and the Brigadier-General commanding the brigade, to
the Colonel of the ----th regiment, of the following tenor:

    “Colonel Robert M. Wagstaff is hereby authorized and directed
    to hold an election for First Lieutenant of Company E, ----th
    Regiment Infantry N. G. P. to fill vacancy caused by the
    resignation of First Lieutenant David E. Morosco, making prompt
    returns to these Headquarters.

    “By order of
    BRIG.-GEN. SAMUEL A. FINLETTER,
    _Commanding 3rd Brigade_.”

Whereupon an order of similar purport was directed by Colonel Wagstaff
to Major Mowbray Huntington, directing him to proceed to Fairweather
and hold such election in person. Notice of the coming election was
posted in the armory ten days prior to the time set for it; and then
the real campaign for the office began.

It had been taken for granted that Second Lieutenant Brownell would
succeed to the first lieutenancy, and that First Sergeant Barriscale
would be chosen to fill the office thus made vacant. But when
Brownell declared that he was not a candidate for the office of first
lieutenant, and would not accept the place if he were elected to it,
discussion as to what ought to be done was rife at the armory.

Barriscale at once declared himself a candidate for the position, and
argued that, in accordance with all the precedents of promotion, he
was entitled to it. But there appeared to be a growing undercurrent of
opposition to his candidacy. He had not yet become sufficiently popular
with the enlisted men as a body to be their unanimous choice for any
elective position of honor in the company. And those who opposed
Barriscale’s election united, without exception, on Second Sergeant
McCormack as their choice.

When Hal heard of the movement to elect him to the first lieutenancy
he tried his best to put a stop to it. He insisted that he was not a
candidate, that he was well satisfied with his present position, and
that at the end of his term of enlistment--and he had now less than a
year to serve--he fully intended to leave the Guard. He besought his
particular friends in the company to aid him in putting an end to the
movement in his behalf, but, although presumably they complied with
his wish, it would not down. Enlisted men came to him and begged him
to reconsider his decision. Civilians met him on the street and urged
him to stand for the election. To every one he turned a deaf ear. He
knew what his reasons were for declining; to him they were good and
sufficient; he had made up his mind and that was the end of it.

Brownell besieged him again and again.

“Hal,” he said, “you must be reasonable and accommodating and give us
a chance at least to vote for you. If you don’t run Ben will have no
opposition; and if he’s elected, heaven help us! there’ll be no living
with him!”

“I’ve already told you,” replied McCormack, “that I want to do
everything on earth I can for you, because you’ve been very good to me;
but I can’t do that. I like the military life. In a way it’s splendid
and thrilling. It’s the fascination of it that makes it dangerous.
There can be no greater menace to the liberties of a people or to the
peoples of the world than the spirit and practice of militarism. Look
at Germany, dominated, burdened and brutalized by her military machine,
and striving, with no indifferent success, at the cost of millions of
lives and seas of blood, to put every nation in Europe under her boot
and spur. I tell you, Joe, I’m not a good enough soldier, nor a good
enough patriot, to take a commission in the National Guard.”

At that Brownell became vexed and impatient.

“It’s just because Germany,” he declared, “has run amuck among
civilized nations, like a wild beast, that she must be subdued like a
wild beast, with powder and steel; and unless I lose my guess, the day
is not far distant when we as a nation have got to pitch in and help
subdue her. In a time like this, Hal McCormack, you can’t leave the
Guard without disgracing yourself, and you can’t turn down a commission
without doing a gross injustice to every one of your comrades in arms.”

But Sergeant McCormack was obdurate, and Brownell accomplished nothing
in any interview.

And then, three days after the notice had been posted, Sarah Halpert
sent for her nephew. She always had to send for him when she wanted
particularly to see him. She declared that when anything especially
important was on, he studiously avoided her society.

“It’s not that I’m so particularly anxious to see you first lieutenant,”
she said to him. “I don’t give a rap which one of you is elected. It’s
your lack of spirit that I deplore. To think that you, the son of your
father, and the grandson of your grandfather, should talk about sneaking
out of the Guard when your time’s up; and then to think that you should
become a regular slacker just to avoid a contest for an honorable
office! Hal McCormack, I’m ashamed of you and disgusted with you!
There!”

“But, Aunt Sarah,” protested Hal, “I don’t want the office; why should
I fight for it? I don’t want to be a lieutenant, nor a major, nor
a brigadier-general. I’m satisfied to be a second sergeant in the
company, and a private in the army of the world’s workers for peace
when my term of enlistment is out.”

“Now, stop that pacifist, socialistic nonsense! This is no time for it.
The thing for you to do is to prove that you’ve got red blood in your
veins, as you have. If your mother had one particle of spunk in her,
which she never did have, she’d make you go without your dinners till
you come to your senses. Now do as I tell you; stand for that election.
Show the kind of stuff that’s in you. Fight for it to the last ditch.”

Hal knew there was no use of arguing with his Aunt Sarah, and he did
not try to reason with her further. But when he left her she had
not convinced him that it was his duty to seek the office of first
lieutenant.

Among those who besought him to become a candidate, perhaps the hardest
one to refuse was Chick, or, as he had come to be known since the
evening when, in a spirit of wrath and contempt, Barriscale gave him
the title, General Chick. For Hal had no greater admirer, and no more
devoted follower in the company, nor indeed in the whole city, than
Chick Dalloway.

It was at the armory just prior to the Thursday evening drill that
Chick said to him:

“I couldn’t stay in the company no longer if Sergeant Barriscale was
elected first lieutenant.”

“Why not, Chick?” asked Hal.

“Oh, he’d lord it over everybody,” was the reply. “He’s bad enough
as first sergeant. I don’t know what he would be if he was first
lieutenant. You’ve got to run, Sergeant ’Cormack; you’ve simply got
to run. We’ll see that you’re ’lected, all right. I’ll work my hands
an’ feet off, an’ my head, too. An’ they’s plenty more of us’ll do the
same thing. I know. I’ve heard the boys talk. Won’t you run, Sergeant
’Cormack?”

“No, Chick. I’m sorry to disappoint you; I’m awfully sorry; but I can’t
run. It--it wouldn’t be quite right for me to run, Chick, feeling as I
do about certain things.”

“What things, Sergeant ’Cormack?”

“I’ll tell you some time. In the meantime you stay with the company and
take whatever comes, and make the best of it, like a good soldier.”

“All right! if you say so I will.”

The assembly was sounding, the men were taking their places in the
ranks, and Sergeant McCormack hurried away to the fulfilment of his
duties.

It was after the drill was over and the company had been dismissed, and
while Hal stood talking to a little group of his friends on the drill
floor, endeavoring not only to dissuade them from putting forth any
efforts in his behalf as a candidate, but also to smother, if possible,
any efforts that might be put forth by others, that Barriscale
approached him. This was an unusual thing for the first sergeant to
do. Heretofore the two men had been “on official terms,” that was all.
Outside the ranks the second sergeant had been studiously ignored by
the orderly. It was something of a surprise, therefore, when Barriscale
came up and asked Hal for the privilege of speaking to him a moment
in private. The request was willingly granted, and the two men walked
away to a remote corner of the drill-hall. When they were well out of
ear-shot of the others Barriscale said:

“The reason I want to speak to you is that I want to know your real
attitude concerning this election. I want to get it straight. Do you
propose to stand for the election or don’t you?”

Notwithstanding the somewhat imperative form of the question, and
the somewhat domineering manner of the questioner, Hal replied
good-naturedly:

“There’s no secret about my attitude. I’ve said over and over again
that I’m not a candidate.”

“I know you’ve said so. But what I want to know is whether or not you
mean it?”

Hal looked down at him in surprise.

“Why do you ask such a question as that?” he said.

“Because it’s come to me pretty straight that all this talk about your
not running is simply to pull the wool over my eyes, catch me off my
guard, make me think I’ll have no opposition, and come in at the last
minute with a whirlwind campaign and sweep me off my feet. If there’s
any game of this kind on foot I want to know it.”

For a moment Hal was too greatly shocked and too deeply amazed to
reply. He could not quite understand why he should be accused of such
trickery.

“Would you suspect me,” he said at last, “of being guilty of playing
this kind of politics?”

“I don’t know,” replied Barriscale bluntly. “I wouldn’t have thought it
of you two years ago; but it’s said that a man is no better than the
company he keeps. And the crowd you’ve been running with lately will
bear watching every hour of the twenty-four. But that is neither here
nor there. What I want to know is whether you are going to stand as a
candidate for the first lieutenancy?”

At last Sergeant McCormack’s wrath was roused.

“Do you think,” he asked angrily, “that your insolent manner and
language entitle you to that information?”

“I think,” was the equally angry reply, “that I was a fool to expect
decent treatment from a Guardsman who has no respect for his country
or his flag.”

With other men, in other surroundings, the next thing would have been
blows. But these men were soldiers, and this was the armory, and it was
inconceivable that the place should witness such a physical encounter
as befits only the barroom or the slums. Simultaneously the two men
turned on their heels and started back across the hall. But another
thought came into Barriscale’s mind and he swung around and again faced
his rival.

“I want to give you notice now,” he declared savagely, “that if you do
oppose my election, either with your own or any one else’s candidacy,
I shall file charges against you and demand your dismissal from the
Guard.”

Suddenly Hal seemed to have recovered his composure.

“Indeed!” he inquired calmly. “On what ground?”

“On the ground of disloyalty to the Guard and treason to the flag.”

“So! And if I don’t oppose you?”

“Then I’ll let you alone, as I have done. And when your time’s up you
can get out of the service quietly, without disgrace.”

“I see. In other words you would buy me off.”

“Call it what you choose. I’ve no doubt you’re purchasable.”

McCormack came a step closer to the first sergeant and looked him
squarely in the eyes.

“Barriscale,” he said quietly, “I have decided to be a candidate for
the office of first lieutenant of Company E.”

So the die was cast. The contest was on. Threats, insolence and insult
had accomplished what the entreaties of friends and relations had
failed to bring about.

When Lieutenant Brownell was told of Hal’s decision to stand as a
candidate he was delighted beyond measure. He said little openly, but
the grip of the hand that he gave the second sergeant when he saw him,
meant more than words.

As for Sarah Halpert, when she heard of it she ordered her car to be
brought to the door, and she went at once to see Hal’s mother. She
swept into the little house like a west wind, and caught her sister in
her arms and kissed her twice.

“You’ve got a boy now,” she said, “that you can be proud of. He’s
turned out to be a real McCormack after all. He’s got soldier blood in
his veins.”

“I’m afraid so,” sighed little Mrs. McCormack. “I’m sorry he got into
it. From what Hal says it’s going to be a fight, and I do hate fights.”

Sarah Halpert’s eyes snapped.

“Why, you miserable little pacifist!” she exclaimed. “Don’t you know
that you’ve got this splendid country to live in because some one
was willing to fight for it? Don’t you know that the only hope for
civilization in the world to-day lies in the fact that red-blooded
men by the millions are willing to face the German beast on the
battle-field? You just get down on your knees and thank God that you’ve
got a boy who isn’t afraid to go into a fight, either of bullets or of
ballots!”

And she swept out of the house with even more vim than she had entered
it.

She didn’t send for Hal this time. She didn’t want to see him. She was
afraid he might put a stop to her electioneering activities. But if
there was another enlisted man in Company E whom she did not interview
on the subject of the approaching election it was because, after
diligent search, she couldn’t possibly find him.

When Hal heard about it he went to her and protested.

“For goodness’ sake, Aunt Sarah,” he exclaimed, “stop it!”

“Stop what?” she inquired, with assumed innocence.

“This electioneering business. You’re queering the whole thing. It’s
one of the unwritten rules of the service that ‘military merit alone
gives any right to claim military preferment.’ The idea of a man’s aunt
making him ridiculous by going around soliciting votes for him from
every member of the company!”

“Well,” she replied, “you needn’t go into a decline over it. I couldn’t
raise a promise out of a single mother’s son of ’em!”

“Of course you couldn’t. It’s one of the unwritten rules of the service
that an enlisted man shall not tell for whom he is going to vote in a
company election.”

“There you go with your ‘unwritten rules’ again. What do I care for
‘unwritten rules,’ or written ones either for that matter? You’ve
got to win this election; and if you do win it, somebody’s got to
electioneer for you. You’re positively no good at all at soliciting
votes for yourself.”

“I know. I don’t want to be elected as a result of soliciting votes for
myself. I want to be elected on my merit as a soldier, or not at all.”

“Fiddlesticks! You haven’t the faintest conception of your duty to
yourself. Why, Ben Barriscale is pulling every string he can get his
fingers on. His father and his mother and his sister and his sweetheart
are all out campaigning for him with bells on. Somebody’s got to do
something for you, young man, or you’ll get left as sure as your name’s
Halpert McCormack!”

But, at the end of the interview, impressed with Hal’s argument against
her undue activities, she promised to be more circumspect in the
promotion of his cause, and he had to be satisfied with that.

Sergeant McCormack had expressed a wish that there should be no open
propaganda in his behalf. He felt that an aggressive fight might
develop into a bitter one, and that such a campaign would not be “for
the good of the service.”

But Sergeant Barriscale was not so considerate or conscientious. From
the moment when Hal informed him that he would be a candidate he knew
that he had a real fight on his hands and he set about the marshaling
of his forces. He brought to bear in his favor every influence of which
he, or any member of his family, or any civilian friend, was possessed.
He used every possible argument against Sergeant McCormack’s promotion
to the first lieutenancy that he or any of his supporters could think
of. He denounced the patent unfairness of any one being permitted to
jump two grades over the head of a present deserving superior officer.
He characterized his opponent as a socialist, a radical, a dreamer, a
pacifist, a nondescript citizen hesitating on the border of absolute
disloyalty to his government in a time when virile patriotism was
needed as never before. All the resources of political skill were
resorted to to circumvent his rival.

Under these conditions it was impossible to confine interest in the
campaign to the rank and file of Company E. The whole city was stirred
with the contest. Partisans arose on every hand. The life of the
citizen soldier was not a happy one. He was besieged from all quarters.
To some of them the European battle line would have been far to be
preferred. Yet it was generally conceded that the chances, if the
word could properly be used when the outcome had been figured with
such mathematical precision, favored Sergeant Barriscale. He had more
powerful friends, he was a more aggressive fighter, he handled every
detail of the campaign with far more skill and thoroughness than did
his opponent.

On the evening before the election the contest reached its apparent
climax. It was not a drill night, but a score or more of the enlisted
men had gathered at the armory, and were standing or sitting in groups
about the drill-hall.

At nine o’clock Sergeant Barriscale came in. He came with a confident
stride, and a look of contentment on his face.

“It’s all over,” he said, “but the shouting. Giving McCormack the
benefit of every doubtful vote, I shall win by a clear majority of
seven.”

General Chick, standing in the group that had gathered about the
candidate, heard him. It was not a pleasant thing for Chick to hear.
His whole heart had been set on the success of Sergeant McCormack.
Daytime and night-time, in season and out of season, whether he met
with rebuff, ridicule or condescension, he exploited the virtues of and
solicited votes for his beloved candidate. To have Barriscale now, on
the eve of the election, declare with such an air of confidence that
he was sure to win out, was more than Chick could stand.

“That ain’t so!” he shouted, shrilly. “You’re licked, and you know it!”

The first sergeant’s face reddened, and the eyes he turned on the boy
were blazing with wrath.

“You insignificant little runt!” he cried, “how dare you speak to me!”

He faced the other way as if in disgust at the incident, and then he
faced back again to say to the amazed and amused listeners:

“I want to give notice now that when this thing is all over, no matter
which way it goes, I shall take measures to rid the armory and the
company of this pestiferous, boot-licking dog-robber.”

And General Chick replied gamely:

“Jest try it on! I come into this comp’ny long before you did, and
I’ll be in it with a major-gen’al’s commission long after you’ve been
invited to git out.”

The crowd laughed, and the incident was closed, but Barriscale’s
confident boast that he would be elected by a majority of seven votes
had sunk deep into Chick’s heart, and he felt that something must be
done immediately to try to save the day.




CHAPTER XI


General Chick did not wait long at the armory after his verbal
encounter with Sergeant Barriscale. He knew that he could accomplish
nothing by remaining there, and he had a feeling that if he could only
see McCormack and talk the situation over with him some plan might be
evolved by which threatened defeat would be averted.

He shuffled across the armory floor and out through the big front door
under the tower into the street.

He wondered whether Ben Barriscale really knew what he was talking
about when he claimed to have a majority of seven votes, or whether
his declaration was simply a bluff made for the effect it might have
on his listeners. But he had seemed so confident; his campaign had
been so thorough and systematic, that now, at the close of it, he was
more than likely to be correct in his estimate of the result. It was a
disheartening conclusion to reach, but it was a conclusion that could
not well be avoided. At any rate there was but one thing to do now, and
that was to see Sergeant McCormack, tell him of his rival’s boast, and
consider what, if anything, could be done.

He knew where McCormack lived, and he knew what route to take to get
there. It was already after nine o’clock, and there was no time to
lose. It was a splendid, moonlight August night and there were many
people in the streets. On the bridge that crossed the river a dozen
loiterers stood, singly and in pairs, watching the shimmer of moonlight
on the passing waters. One of them spoke to Chick as he hurried by,
but the boy did not stop to respond; he gave a quick word of greeting
and moved rapidly on. With every step that he took he grew more
and more impressed with the importance of his errand, and with the
necessity of haste in delivering it. He felt that the sooner he could
reach McCormack the greater would be the possibility of averting the
threatened disaster.

In front of the Fairweather Club a man stood in evening clothes,
anxiously scanning the faces of those who passed by. When he saw Chick
coming a look of relief spread over his countenance.

“Chick!” he called, “you’re just the man I’m looking for. I want you to
take a letter to Mayor Toplady for me. It’s got to be delivered before
ten o’clock.”

Chick paused long enough to reply.

“Can’t do it,” he said. “Ain’t got time.”

“There’s a dollar in it for you. You can take the next car that comes
along. You’ll get there in twenty minutes.”

Chick opened his eyes wide. There were not many days in the year in
which he earned a whole dollar. But to-night the offer did not tempt
him.

“I’d like to ’commodate you,” he said; “but it’s jest as I told you; I
ain’t got time. I’m in too much of a hurry.”

“I’ll give you two dollars, Chick. It isn’t every man that comes along
that I can trust. And this is important.”

But the boy was still obdurate.

“I tell you I can’t do it!” he exclaimed. “If they was fifty dollars in
it for me I couldn’t do it. I’ve got an important errant myself.”

And, for the purpose of shutting off further argument and entreaty, he
hurried on.

At the next corner he could take a street-car that would carry him to
within three blocks of McCormack’s home. He thrust his hand into his
pocket for the necessary nickel and found, to his dismay, that he was
penniless. So there was nothing for him to do but to walk the mile up
the hill, unless he could quickly find some one who would lend him
the required car fare. At that moment, as good luck would have it, he
discovered Corporal Manning, of Company E, just entering Wolf’s drug
store. He knew that Manning would lend him the money, for Manning was a
friend of his and had already done him more than one favor. Moreover,
he believed that the corporal was friendly to McCormack and would favor
his candidacy.

As Chick entered the drug store Manning was just seating himself on one
of the revolving stools at the soda-fountain counter. He saw the boy
and called to him.

“Just in time, Chick!” he exclaimed. “Come and have a soda on me.”

Now the love of soda-water was Chick’s besetting sin. He himself
acknowledged that far too many of his hard-earned nickels went to
appease his desire for his favorite drink. But to-night, even though a
sudden thirst overwhelmed him, he put the temptation resolutely aside.

“No,” he said, “I’m jest as much obleeged to you, but I ain’t got time.
I’ve got use for the nickel, though,” he added, shuffling up to the
counter, “if you’d lend me one till to-morrow.”

“Sure!” replied Manning, cheerfully. “Make it a dime.” He produced the
coin and handed it to the boy. “But what’s the great hurry?”

Chick looked cautiously over the near-by patrons of the place before
answering. No one was within hearing. Perhaps he might get a valuable
suggestion.

“Well,” he whispered, “I’m goin’ up to see Sergeant ’Cormack.
Somethin’s got to be done right off.”

“Why? What’s the matter?”

“I jest heard Sergeant Barry say he’s goin’ to beat my candidate by
seven votes. He told the bunch up to the armory. I can’t stan’ that.
We’ve got to do somethin’ quick.”

Manning set his glass back deliberately on the counter.

“I don’t believe it!” he said. “He’s just throwing a bluff. Charlie
Moore and I went over the whole situation not more than half an hour
ago; and the way we figure it Hal will come under the wire with three
votes to spare.”

“You countin’ on Stone an’ Hooper?”

“Sure, we’re counting on them.”

“That’s where you’re way off. They’re for Barry.”

“It can’t be. They’re as good as promised for Hal.”

“Well, I heard Stone say, myself, that him and Hooper was for Barry
because they had to be.”

Corporal Manning sat for a moment in grim silence. “Then I don’t know,”
he said finally, “who you can depend on. Maybe Barriscale will get away
with it after all. He’s a crack-a-jack at wire-pulling. Did you say
there’s a bunch of the boys up at the armory?”

“Yes; dozens of ’em.”

“I guess I’ll go up there myself and see how the land lies.”

“I wisht you would. An’ I’ll go on up to ’Cormack’s an’ see what can be
done.”

Chick shuffled hastily out, but Manning rose from his seat, went to the
door, and called after him.

“You tell Hal,” he said, when the boy came back to the step, “that he
can depend absolutely on Charlie Moore and me. I don’t know whether
he’s counting on us. I haven’t promised him anything; but he ought to
know now on whom he can rely.”

“That’s good!” replied Chick; “I’ll tell him.” And he turned again and
hurried away.

Manning stood for a minute in the store door gazing at the crowds in
the street, and then, without going back to finish his soda, he started
toward the armory.

Twenty minutes later Chick rang the door-bell at the McCormack house.
Hal, himself, came to the door, and, when he saw who was there, he drew
the boy into the hall, and then into the library.

“I know it’s perty late for me to be comin’,” began Chick apologetically;
“but I got somethin’ to tell you, an’ it wouldn’t keep over night.”

“About the election, I suppose?” inquired Hal.

“Yes. Sergeant Barry says he’s goin’ to win out to-morrow with seven
votes to spare. He told that to the bunch up to the armory to-night.”

“He must be mistaken, Chick. I’ve figured it out, and according to my
figures I’ll have a majority of three.”

“You countin’ on Stone an’ Hooper?”

“Yes; they’re friends of mine.”

“Well, they’re no good. They’re for Barry. I heard Fred Stone say so
himself.”

“If that’s so I’ll get left. But I’ve done everything that it’s
possible for any decent fellow to do to get elected, and I’ll have no
regrets on that score.”

It was at this juncture that Miss Sarah Halpert entered into the
conversation. She had been sitting with other members of the family
in an adjoining room, the connecting door of which was wide open, and
evidently she had heard Hal’s remark, for now she came bustling into
the library and stood facing the two boys.

“That’s not so, Hal McCormack!” she declared, “and you know it. You’ve
done precious little to get elected. Why, instead of sitting here at
home to-night calmly reading Karl Marx’s silly book on ‘Kapital,’ you
ought to be out with your coat off and your sleeves rolled up, hustling
for votes, as I’ll warrant you Ben Barriscale is.”

Hal smiled. He seldom took his Aunt Sarah’s scolding seriously. But
to-night she seemed to be more in earnest than usual.

“Why,” she went on, “Chick is worth a dozen of you as a vote-getter.
Here he’s been running his legs off for you for days while you’ve been
dawdling around the house. What is the outlook anyway, Chick?”

“Perty poor, Mrs. Halpert,” was the reply.

Chick always called her “Mrs.” She said she didn’t know why on earth he
did so unless it was because he felt that even if she wasn’t married
she ought to be, so that she would have some one to be continually
bossing.

“Well, where’s your list, Hal?” she asked. “Let’s look it over again.
We’ll separate the sheep from the goats and put bells on them. Then
we’ll know where they are.”

She crossed over and seated herself in a chair by the table, and
beckoned to the boys to join her there. They did so. And when Hal
produced his list, already checked and rechecked, of the names of the
enlisted men in his company, she went over it with them, name by name,
and from the reports which they gave, and from her own knowledge and
opinions, she drew her conclusions and made her division.

“’Fore I forget it,” said Chick, “Co’poral Manning sent word to tell
you that him an’ Charlie Moore is for you. He thought you might not be
sure of ’em.”

“I wasn’t sure of them,” replied Hal. “It was rather a delicate matter
to approach them, and I didn’t do it.”

“Of course you didn’t!” sputtered Miss Halpert. “And there are
several dozen more whom your extraordinary delicacy and modesty have
prevented you from interviewing. Oh, you’ve made a fine campaign--for
self-effacement!” She turned abruptly to Chick. “Chick,” she asked,
“who are the doubtful ones in this whole list? Just give me their names
and I’ll take them down.”

“What for, Aunt Sarah?” Hal scented trouble.

“I’m going to see every mother’s son of ’em to-morrow morning, and find
out what’s what.”

“But, Aunt Sarah, you promised me----”

She turned on him sharply.

“My promise was on condition that you should do something for yourself.
And as near as I can make out you haven’t done a blessed thing. Chick,
give me those names.”

Hal groaned in dismay. He knew, from long experience, the utter
uselessness of making further protest.

“Well,” replied Chick, “there’s Maury an’ Steinman an’ Jarvis an’
O’Donnell, an’--an’----”

“How about Tom Hooper?” inquired Miss Halpert.

“Him an’ Jim Stone’s ag’inst us,” answered Chick.

“What for?”

“No reason ’t I know of, ’cept they’re fixed.”

“Well, they’re not fixed until after I’ve seen them.”

“But,” protested Hal, “you don’t know those fellows, Aunt Sarah.”

“Then,” she replied quickly, “I’ll make their acquaintance. Besides, I
know their mothers, and I guess their mothers will have the last say.
I’ll try it on anyway.”

“Oh, Aunt Sarah! this is not a contest between the mothers of the boys.”

“All right! Make it a contest between their aunts if you like. But the
time has come when I’m going to interfere. Chick, give me the rest of
those names.”

When her request had been complied with, Miss Halpert went over again
with the two boys the entire list and checked up those who were surely
for and those who were surely against the second sergeant, and divided
the doubtful ones according to the probabilities; and Hal was still one
vote short. Then Chick had an idea.

“Where you got Fred Lewis?” he asked.

“He’s against me,” replied Hal. “He works at the Barriscale, and he’s
one of Ben’s right-hand men.”

Chick sat for a moment in contemplative silence.

“I shouldn’t wonder ’at I’ve got a pull with him,” he said finally.

“You’ll have to have a pretty big pull to get him away from Ben,”
replied Hal incredulously. “What do you mean pull, anyway?”

“Oh, I can’t tell you that. It’s somethin’ that him an’ me knows about.
It’s a secret. I’m goin’ to see him anyway.”

He rose from his chair, cap in hand, and faced toward the door.

“Why, Chick!” exclaimed Hal, “you can’t see him to-night. It’s after
half-past ten. He’ll be in bed.”

“Let the boy alone!” broke in Miss Halpert, sharply. “He knows what
he’s about, and you don’t. It’s never too late to get a vote.”

So Chick went out into the night and bent his steps toward the home of
Alfred Lewis, admirer of a girl by the name of Rachael. He, himself,
had no clear idea of what he was going to do or how he was going to do
it. He simply felt that he must find his man if possible, and settle
the question of his vote. Doubtless it was too late in the evening to
see him, as Sergeant McCormack had said; but at least it would do no
harm to try. His way lay across the city, there was no street-car line
reaching in that direction, and it was necessary for him to walk.

When he had accomplished half the distance he found himself out of
breath, and sat down for a little while on the carriage block in front
of a private residence to rest. When he started on again he walked more
slowly. The clock in the tower of the City Hall, a mile away, tolled
out the hour of eleven. He heard it and walked faster. And when he
finally reached the Lewis home he found the house dark, and no one in
the neighborhood. He leaned against the gate where he had left young
Lewis the night he had given him the letter, and wondered what he
should do. Plainly there was but one thing for him to do, and that was
to go home. It would be absurd and unpardonable to rouse the members of
the Lewis household for the purpose of his errand. He faced back toward
the way by which he had come, but before he had moved from his place
he heard the echo of footsteps on the pavement, and discovered a dim
form approaching him. It was a man, and, as he drew near, Chick heard
him whistle softly to himself. He decided to wait till the man should
go by. But the man didn’t go by. He stopped at the gate and looked
inquiringly at the figure standing there.

“Chick!”

“Corp’al Lewis!”

The recognition was mutual and simultaneous.

“Chick, are you waiting to see me?”

“Yes, they’s somethin’ I kind o’ want to ast you.”

“All right! Go ahead and ask it. You’ll never find me in a more genial
frame of mind.”

“Well, do you ’member ’bout that letter I found, to a girl name o’
Rachael?”

“Do I remember about it! Chick, the finding of that letter has made me
the happiest man on earth.”

“That so?” Chick seemed to be a little incredulous at first, but when
he looked into the beaming face of the young man, as the light from the
incandescent lamp at the corner fell on it, he no longer doubted his
words.

“Yes, let me tell you.” Young Lewis came closer and lowered his voice,
although the street was quiet as an African desert, and every house in
the block was closed and locked for the night. “You see, I took that
letter with me when I went there this evening, and I told her about how
you had found it and given it back to me; and, naturally, she wanted
to see it; so, after a while, I let her read it. And that sort o’
broke the ice, and--well, Chick, that girl by the name of Rachael has
promised to be my wife.”

He straightened up, threw back his head and shoulders, and assumed a
wholly monarchical air.

“That’s fine an’ dandy,” said Chick, not knowing what else to say.

“Yes; and let me tell you what she said, Chick. She said that if any
one else had found the letter, and had shown it, and it had become
public property, as it were, and people had identified me as the writer
and her as the proposed recipient, she wouldn’t have married me in
a thousand years; just to punish me in the first place for my crass
negligence, and in the second place to spite the gossips.”

Chick laughed a little. “She’s got some spunk, ain’t she?” he said.

“You bet she has. So you see where you come in, Chick. She’s under
everlasting obligations to you, and so am I.”

The boy shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and reached out
a caressing hand to the gate-post.

“You ’member,” he asked, “what you promised me the night I give you
back the letter?”

“Sure I do. I promised you I’d do you any favor in my power, any time.”

“Well, you can do it now.”

“How?”

“Vote for Sergeant ’Cormack to-morrow.”

Fred Lewis looked questioningly into the eyes of his visitor and for a
moment he did not speak. Finally he said:

“Chick, that’s a poser. You know I work in the Barriscale, don’t you?”

“I know it.”

“And I’m looking for promotion there.”

“I s’pose so.”

“And Ben is counting on my vote.”

“Most likely.”

“Then, what can you expect?”

Chick did not answer the question, but he asked another.

“Ain’t promised him nothin’, have you?”

“No, he hasn’t asked me. He’s taken it all for granted.”

“Well, nobody’ll know how anybody votes.”

“That’s true.”

“And you ain’t got nothin’ ag’inst Sergeant ’Cormack?”

“No; he’s a fine fellow, and he’ll make a splendid officer.”

“Then vote for him. I ask you.”

Again young Lewis was silent. Evidently he was weighing the matter in
his mind.

“Chick,” he said at last, “can you keep a secret?”

“I didn’t say nothin’ ’bout the letter, did I?”

“No, that’s right. Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I won’t promise
you a single thing. Mind you, not a single thing. But, Chick, Halpert
McCormack is going to get one vote to-morrow that he’s not expecting.
Do you get me?”

“I got you.”

“All right! Here’s my hand on it. And, Chick, it’s _our_ secret.”

“Criss-cross my heart,” replied Chick.

There was a long hand-clasp, a cheery good-night, and the boy turned
his face toward home. As he went down the hill, and struck into the
deserted Main Street, the clock in the City Hall tower tolled the hour
of twelve.




CHAPTER XII


On Tuesday, the fifth day of October, 1915, Major Mowbray Huntington
came to Fairweather, in pursuance of the order issued to him, to hold
an election for the office of first lieutenant of Company E. The
election was to be held at eight o’clock in the evening of that day, in
the company room at the armory. But, long before the hour for balloting
had arrived, members of the company came strolling in by ones and
twos and began to gather in little groups on the drill floor of the
armory. There was no acrimonious debate, nor was there any exhibition
of violent partisanship. The time for argument and for proselyting had
gone by. But there was intense interest. It was now a question of which
of the two candidates had secured the most prospective votes. Every one
agreed that the contest was fairly close, but Barriscale’s adherents
were confident in their prediction that he would win out by a safe
majority. Nor had Hal’s friends given up hope. They felt that it was
still among the possibilities that he should be elected. At any rate,
he had made a clean, aggressive, splendid fight, and they were proud of
him. He had never been half-hearted in the matter; not from the moment
of his decision to enter the contest. At first he had been contented
simply to announce his candidacy without entering into any active
campaign. But when he learned what a strenuous fight his opponent
was putting up, how he was leaving no stone unturned, no influence
unsolicited, no argument, fair or unfair, unused; he threw himself more
keenly into the contest, enlisted the active support of his friends in
the company, and carried on a vigorous fight up to the very close of
the campaign. And now the final chapter had been reached.

At eight o’clock the assembly was sounded, the men fell in in full
uniform with side-arms, according to military law, the roll was called,
the command turned over to Captain Murray, and the company marched to
the large room on the second floor, where seats had been arranged in
rows for purposes of the election.

At the table at one end of the room sat Major Huntington, flanked on
his right by Captain Murray, and on his left by Second Lieutenant
Brownell, while Corporal Manning, the company clerk, occupied a seat at
one end of the table.

When the clerk had read to the company the order for the election,
Major Huntington arose and said:

“In compliance with the order just read we will now proceed to the
election of a first lieutenant for Company E. It has been certified
to me that your company carries sixty-seven regularly enlisted men on
its roll, all of whom are present in uniform. You therefore have nine
more members than the minimum number required for holding an election.
A candidate must receive at least thirty-four votes in order to be
elected. I understand that there are but two known candidates for the
office, and that printed ballots have been distributed containing their
names. However, lest any man should be without, or should not care to
use, a printed ballot, the clerk will now distribute blank slips to
you, on which a candidate’s name may be written. Five minutes after
this distribution has been made, I shall have the company roll called,
and each man, as his name is spoken, will come forward and deposit his
ballot in the box on the table. I have appointed Captain Murray and
Lieutenant Brownell to be inspectors of the election. After the votes
have been cast they will be counted by us, and the result will be
immediately announced.”

There was some whispering among the men, and a few of them began to
write the name of their candidate on the blank slips which had now
been distributed to them. For the most part, however, the electors sat
quietly with their printed ballots in their hands, awaiting the calling
of the roll.

It was during this lull that Private Stone arose in his place. Stone
was a clerk in the employ of the Barriscale Manufacturing Company, and
a violent partisan of the first sergeant.

“May I ask for information?” he inquired.

“You may,” replied the presiding officer.

“I want to know if, under military law, a man is eligible to election
as first lieutenant over the head of a man who is now his superior
officer, and who is also a candidate?”

“I know of no rule of military law,” replied the chairman, “that denies
his eligibility.”

Friends of McCormack, who had looked up apprehensively when the
question was put, breathed freely again.

“Then I want to know,” continued Stone, “if it is according to military
custom for an under officer to be promoted like that?”

“As a general thing,” replied Major Huntington, “officers go up in
accordance with their existing rank. But it is not contrary to military
ethics to jump grades. The members of a company have a perfect right,
if they choose to do so, to elevate a private to the captaincy over the
heads of all intervening officers.”

But Stone was persistent.

“Do you think,” he asked, “that things like that are for ‘the good of
the service’? Isn’t it better for military discipline that men should
work their way up in regular order?”

“That,” replied the major, “is a matter that I cannot discuss with you
at this time. You must settle that for yourselves, by your ballots.”

Stone resumed his seat, somewhat crestfallen, amid the smiles of those
who were not in sympathy with him. But no sooner was he seated than
Hooper, another ardent Barriscale supporter, sprang to his feet. It was
evident that Hooper was laboring under considerable excitement.

“One of the candidates here,” he declared, “is known to be a socialist
and a companion of radicals who are opposed to all government. He
doesn’t believe in the use of the military to suppress riot and
disorder, nor in the punishment of any one who deliberately insults our
flag. He is unpatriotic and un-American, and unsafe to be entrusted
with the command of troops. Have we any right, legal or moral, to elect
such a person as our first lieutenant?”

Before the last word was out of Hooper’s mouth, and before the chairman
could make any response, Private Moore, a warm friend of McCormack’s,
was on his feet.

“That’s slander!” he shouted, “and Hooper knows it. There’s no better
soldier in the Guard, nor any more loyal citizen in this country than
Sergeant Halpert McCormack; and it’s contemptible of you”--turning
toward Hooper with red face and eyes blazing with indignation--“I say
it’s contemptible of you even to intimate to the contrary.”

Under Moore’s fierce gaze and emphatic language Hooper wilted and
resumed his seat.

Then Barriscale, himself, sprang into the breach. It was apparent that
his lieutenants were not standing to their guns with the force and
pertinacity that he had expected of them, and that he, himself, must
leap in and push the argument home. Major Huntington, the chairman, had
already raised his gavel, as if to shut off further discussion, but,
apparently, having permitted Moore to be heard, he thought it was not
wise to silence Barriscale. So the gavel did not fall.

“It’s no slander!” declared Barriscale, dramatically. “What Hooper
says is all true, and he hasn’t begun to tell it all either. I’ve
investigated. I know this man’s record. And I tell you that he comes
little short of being a full-fledged anarchist. He would put the red
flag, to-day, above the Stars and Stripes. I give notice, now, that
when this thing is over, either he will be dismissed from the Guard or
I will. I shall refuse to serve in the same company----”

He got no further. The buzz which had begun at the end of his first
half dozen words had risen to a prolonged hiss, and it now deepened
into a perfect roar of disapproval. Men on both sides sprang to their
feet clamoring to be heard.

It was then, for the first time, that the chairman’s gavel fell; and it
fell with a crash that evidenced his state of mind.

“Order!” he shouted. “I shall discipline the first man who remains on
his feet or who says another word!”

Trained to obey commands, the men resumed their seats and were silent.
But, on every face was a flush of excitement, apprehension or anger.

“I am astonished,” continued the chairman, “that members of this
company should have been guilty of such a breach of military etiquette
as this, or should have indulged in such an unsoldierly demonstration.
I am here to conduct your election, not to settle your quarrels. I
will say, however, that if the person who receives a majority of your
votes is not approved by my superior officers, he will be denied a
commission. Of that you may rest assured. The clerk will now call the
roll, and you will come forward and deposit your ballots as your names
are spoken.”

There was no more quarreling; there were no more charges or
counter-charges. The time for action had come.

The clerk began calling the roll, and, as he called the several names,
the men responded, advanced to the table, put their ballots into the
box and resumed their seats.

When the voting had been completed the counting began. One by one the
ballots were removed from the box by Lieutenant Brownell, exhibited
in turn to Major Huntington and Captain Murray, and the name on them
announced to Corporal Manning, the clerk, in a voice loud and distinct
enough to be heard by every person present.

But the clerk was not the only one in the room who was keeping tally as
the votes were counted. Fully half of the men there, with pencils and
paper, were keeping their own record as the count progressed, and the
other half were looking over their shoulders.

It was an absorbing occupation for all of them. The two candidates
were running almost neck and neck. Now Barriscale was ahead, and now
McCormack. After a few minutes the first sergeant began to forge a
little farther to the front. When the fortieth ballot had been removed
from the box and counted, his vote stood twenty-three to McCormack’s
seventeen.

Surrounded by his friends, at the right of the first row of seats,
Barriscale watched with intense interest the tally as Stone carried
it along in blocks of five. He had never doubted his ultimate success
in the election; now, with the vote standing as it did, he was more
confident than ever. He did not see how it was possible, with the lead
he had, for McCormack to overtake him. Already a smile of triumph began
to overspread his face.

But the next two votes went to McCormack, and the lead was reduced
to four. However, Barriscale got numbers forty-three, forty-five and
forty-eight, thus holding his lead of four.

But forty-nine and fifty went to McCormack, leaving Barriscale a
majority on the fiftieth count of only two.

Things began to look serious for the first sergeant.

Stone and Hooper were keeping tally with trembling fingers.

Barriscale, himself, was still optimistic concerning his success, and
when the next three votes were recorded for him, carrying his lead up
to five, the confident smile reasserted itself in his face, and he
foresaw an easy victory.

There were only fourteen more ballots to be counted, and it was hardly
within the range of possibility that he could now be defeated.

Then, alas for human probabilities! five votes in succession were
announced for McCormack, so that, with the counting of the fifty-eighth
ballot, the two candidates were for the first time tied.

Number fifty-nine was for Barriscale; but numbers sixty, sixty-one and
sixty-two were all for McCormack, giving him a lead of two votes.

For the first time in all the strenuous campaign, the glimmer of hope
in Hal’s breast, alternately fading and reappearing, brightened into a
steady flame. There were but five more votes to be counted. Surely he
might reasonably hope to get two of them.

As for Sergeant Barriscale, there was no smile on his lips now. He
stared at the tally sheet with incredulous eyes. The votes that he had
confidently counted on had not been forthcoming. It was evident that
some one, more than one indeed, had played traitor to him. Already
the fires of anger were beginning to blaze up in his breast. Had he
harbored resentment too soon? It might be; for the next three ballots
were for him. On the sixty-fifth count he was one ahead. There were but
two more ballots to be counted. Surely he had a right to expect one of
these. He grasped at the proverbial straw with the clutch of a drowning
man.

The excitement in the room was intense but suppressed. Save for the
voice of the chairman announcing the names on the ballots, and the
voice of the clerk repeating them, there was absolute stillness. No one
else spoke, or even whispered. Men scarcely breathed for the suspense
that was on them.

Ballot number sixty-six was removed from the box, read and recorded. It
was for McCormack.

The two contestants were again tied.

There was but one more ballot to be counted. That ballot would break
the tie and decide the election.

Men put aside their tally sheets, or crumpled them in their hands, and
leaned forward in their chairs, their eyes fixed on the lips of the
presiding officer, in breathless anticipation.

Brownell reached into the box, drew out the last ballot, glanced at it,
and handed it to Major Huntington.

The major looked at it in his turn, showed it to Captain Murray, and
then announced the name written on it.

“Halpert McCormack.”

For the fraction of a minute there was dead silence. Then, like a
clap of thunder, there came a swift outburst of applause. Hands,
feet, throats united to acclaim the young officer-elect. Spontaneous,
irrepressible, enthusiastic, the chorus of rejoicing rolled out
from the company room, down the broad stairway, and across the wide
drill-hall to its remotest corner. People waiting there in scores to
hear the outcome of the election caught up the waves of sound and sent
them echoing back to the room on the upper floor, though not one of
them knew as yet whose victory it was.

Then, for the second time that evening, the chairman’s gavel crashed
down on the table before him, but on his face there was no sign of
annoyance or of disapproval as he announced the result of the balloting.

“Sixty-seven votes have been cast. Of these Sergeant Barriscale
receives thirty-three, and Sergeant McCormack receives thirty-four.
Second Sergeant Halpert McCormack has therefore been elected to the
office of First Lieutenant of Company E. He will report to me for
instructions immediately after the breaking of ranks. Captain Murray,
you will now dismiss your company.”

Of course Hal was the hero of the hour. Of course people congratulated
him right and left. If his head had been easily turned he would have
faced backward forever after. Brownell was jubilant. Major-General
Chick was delirious with joy. Aunt Sarah, waiting with her ear at the
telephone receiver for word from the armory, could hardly contain
herself when the victory was announced to her. When Hal went to see
her the next day she saw him coming, met him on the porch, and kissed
him on both cheeks in full view of the passers-by, greatly to his
discomfiture.

But he partly consoled himself by saying to her:

“The men whom you especially interviewed in my behalf all voted against
me. The next time I run for anything I’m going to lock you into the
house and throw the key down the well. It’s not safe to have you at
large on such an occasion.”

“You behave yourself!” she retorted, “and stop making fun of a
defenseless old maid. Do you know what I’m going to do to punish you?
I’m going to make you a gift of your officer’s uniform, and sword, and
shoulder-straps, and the whole equipment, and----”

“Aunt Sarah, you mustn’t think----”

“You--keep--your mouth--closed. I----”

“But, Aunt Sarah!”

“I say shut up! The thing’s settled. How’s your mother to-day?”

If McCormack’s friends were jubilant over his election, he, himself,
did not appear to be unduly elated. He did not seem to feel that his
victory was a thing of which he should be especially proud. He had been
elected by a bare majority of the votes of all the electors of the
company, and he had won out over his opponent by only a single vote.

Nor had he been greatly ambitious to obtain the promotion. Indeed, had
it not been for Barriscale’s surly conduct and attempted bribe, he
would have persisted in refusing to be a candidate. But, now that he
had been elected, he determined that he would fulfil the duties of his
new position faithfully, to the best of his judgment and ability.

He was not objectionable to the bulk of the minority voters of the
company. If he did not know that at the time of the election he learned
it soon afterward. One by one, as opportunity offered, they came to
him, congratulated him, and gave him sincere assurances of their
entire loyalty. His opponent had, indeed, been their choice, either
for reasons of preference or policy, but McCormack was in no sense
displeasing to them. This, much to his satisfaction, they made him
understand.

So, in due course, the return of the election was forwarded through
regimental headquarters to the Adjutant-General, the several
headquarters through which it passed endorsing thereon their approval.
It was as follows:

    “_To the Adjutant-General of Pennsylvania_:

    “SIR:

    “At an election held on the fifth day of October, A. D. 1915,
    for First Lieutenant of Company E, ----th Infantry, N. G. P.,
    the following named person was duly elected, to wit: HALPERT
    MCCORMACK of Benson County; and I hereby certify that the
    company now bears upon its rolls the names of sixty-seven
    bona-fide enlisted men, that at this election sixty-seven men
    were paraded in State uniform, that the candidate elected
    received thirty-four votes, and that he has been duly notified
    by me of his election. Witness my hand this seventh day of
    October, A. D. 1915.

    “MOWBRAY HUNTINGTON,
    _Major_,
    _Conducting Election_.”

    “Attest,
    RICHARD L. MANNING,
    _Clerk of Election_.”

This return was accompanied by McCormack’s acceptance as follows:

    “_To the Adjutant-General_,
    _State of Pennsylvania_:
    _Through Intermediate Headquarters_.

    “SIR:

    “I have the honor to advise you that I hereby accept the
    election to the office of First Lieutenant of Company E,
    ----th Regiment Infantry, N. G. P.

    “Very respectfully,
    HALPERT MCCORMACK,
    _Second Sergeant Company E_,
    Fairweather, Pa.”

But there was no positive assurance that Hal would receive his
commission. He still had Ben Barriscale to deal with, and Barriscale
had threatened to force him out of the Guard. The first step in such
a movement would of course be to attempt to block the confirmation of
McCormack’s election before the military board authorized by law to
deny a commission to elected but unapproved officers.

That the defeated candidate would not hesitate to take action of this
kind, if he could be assured of any fair prospect of success, every one
knew.

He was disappointed, angry, and bitter beyond belief over his defeat.
He felt that he had been betrayed by some of those whose support he had
a right to receive; that, as he said, they had given him “the double
cross,” and that it was their defection that had led to his defeat. He
did not know, or perhaps could not have understood if he had known,
that it was his own injudicious and threatening outburst on the day of
election that caused the changing of enough ballots to precipitate the
disaster to his cause.

And he did not know, and was destined never to know, about the
midnight visit of Chick Dalloway with Fred Lewis, nor why it was that
McCormack carried the election by a majority of just one vote.

Of course much of his anger and resentment were directed toward his
late opponent. His threat on the night of the election had been no
idle one, and Hal and his friends knew it. They waited, therefore,
not without some apprehension, to see what steps he might now take to
prevent the first lieutenant-elect from ever having the benefit of his
shoulder-straps.




CHAPTER XIII


It is true that First Sergeant Barriscale took into serious consideration
the question of an attempt to block the confirmation of his rival’s
election to the first lieutenancy.

But when he consulted with his father about the matter, the elder
Barriscale advised against such action. Not that he had any love for
McCormack. He was against him as bitterly as was his son. But he had
a longer head than had his boy, and he felt that the time was not yet
ripe in which to inaugurate a movement that would do the young officer
the most injury. Hal had not renounced his socialistic leanings, nor
had he forsaken his radical associates. Of that fact the Barriscales
had assured themselves, and with that fact, and what it promised for
the future, they were at present content.

“Give him rope enough, and he’ll hang himself,” was the sententious
comment of the elder Barriscale.

So, in due time, Lieutenant McCormack received his commission and
took the oath required of commissioned officers. It was an oath the
obligation of which stared him in the face many times in the days that
were to come.

    “I do solemnly swear that to the best of my knowledge and
    ability I will support and defend the Constitution of the
    United States, and of the State of Pennsylvania, against
    all enemies foreign and domestic; and that I will well and
    faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am
    about to enter. So help me God.

    “HALPERT MCCORMACK,
    _First Lieutenant Company E,
    ----th Regiment, N. G. P.,
    Fairweather, Pa._”

    “Sworn to and subscribed before me
    this 21st day of October, A. D. 1915.

    “ELON A. CONYBEARE,
    _Major, Staff of_ BRIG.-GEN’L. SAML. A. FINLETTER.”

So, at last, Hal had his shoulder-straps, his officer’s uniform, and
his equipment. Much against his inclination he had been obliged to
accept these things as a gift from his Aunt Sarah Halpert. Not to have
done so would, as she herself declared, have completely broken her
heart.

“I can’t go and fight,” she said to him; “not but what I’d be perfectly
willing to, but they wouldn’t let me. So the next best thing for me to
do was to furnish you with your fighting togs. And you’ll have a chance
to use ’em; take my word for it. Uncle Sam’s soldiers are going to have
some fighting to do before things get settled.”

“I hope not, Aunt Sarah.”

“You hope not! Why, you weak-kneed pacifist! If this government doesn’t
jump in and help France and England smash the Kaiser, I’ll be ashamed
of my flag.”

“It’s not our quarrel.”

“Of course it’s our quarrel. Those stupid German blunderers have made
it our quarrel. They’ve trodden on Uncle Sam’s coat-tails once a week
for a year. They’ll do it about twice more and then something will
drop. Besides, there’s all that hubbub down in Mexico, making life a
nightmare this side the border. Those hoodlums have got to be clubbed
into decency, and I don’t see but what you fellows have got to go down
there and do it. There isn’t enough of the regular army to patrol a
greaser’s cabin. And if you don’t get a taste of war across the seas or
down among the cactus, you may have a chance to show your mettle right
here at home. They say the workmen in the mills are getting impudent
and ugly and threatening a strike that’ll make Ben Barriscale’s hair
stand on end. I mean the old man.”

She paused, not because she had no more to say, but in order to take
fresh breath. The pause gave Hal another chance to break in.

“I wouldn’t mind helping to defend this country against a foreign
foe, if it were necessary,” he said, “or even assisting to suppress a
domestic rebellion against the lawfully organized government. But when
it comes to doing strike duty I protest. That’s a job for the state
police anyway; not for the National Guard.”

“But it _is_ a job for the National Guard when it gets too big for the
police or the state police to handle. I suppose men have a right to
quit work whenever they want to; but they haven’t a right to try to win
a strike with brickbats and torches.”

“If workmen were fairly treated, and given their due proportion of the
product of their labor, there would be no strikes, and no brickbats,
and no torches. Anyway, the idea of workers being awed or shot or
bayoneted by the militia into submission to their capitalist employers’
terms, is so abhorrent to me that I don’t want to think of it.”

“There you go again, you wild-eyed anarchist! A fine militiaman you
are! Threatening to compound felonies and protect criminals! You’d
better----”

“There, now, Aunt Sarah, let’s call quits! We’ll never agree in the
world. You come up to the armory to-morrow night and see me in my new
uniform, and forget that I’m a bomb-throwing, king-killing anarchist.”

It was true, as Aunt Sarah had said, that there was uneasiness among
the workmen employed in the Barriscale plant. The factory had never
before been so busy. The company was not engaged directly in the
manufacture of munitions for use by the entente allies, but it was
engaged in the manufacture of implements and machinery for the making
of such munitions. Among the men the rumor was current that the profits
of the concern were enormous, and that the Barriscales and their
associates were reaping great harvests of gold. They knew of no reason
why they, in view of the sharp advance in the general cost of living,
should not share in this prosperity. Wages had indeed been advanced
twice since the advent of the European War, but these advances were
merely a pittance in comparison to what they were entitled to receive
if stories of the company’s profits were true.

However, the winter came and brought no strike. Men are not apt, in
severe weather, to look complacently on disappearing jobs.

But when the late March days gave promise of an early spring, and new
life began to stir the pulses of men as it stirred the heart of nature,
the spirit of discontent awoke and crystallized into a demand on the
officers of the Barriscale Company for much higher wages, shorter hours
and better conditions of labor. The demand was refused. Next in order
was an ultimatum to the effect that unless, by the following Tuesday
night, the requirements of the men were substantially complied with,
not a union man would be found at his post on Wednesday morning.

Benjamin Barriscale, Sr., shut his square jaws together, and told his
board of directors that so far as he was concerned he would scrap the
entire plant and go out of business before he would be black-jacked
into submission to a lot of irresponsible union officials. And since
he dominated the board and no one cared to dispute his judgment, the
ultimatum was ignored and the strike was declared.

Both sides claimed to be confident of victory, and, as the contest
lengthened, there was less talk of compromise, and the farther away
appeared to be the day of settlement.

In the fifth week of the struggle a new element entered into the
situation. Hitherto the management of the strike had been in the
hands of labor union officials. They had held their men well in
check, there had been little disorder and no rioting. But, from the
inception of the trouble, organizers and leaders of the radical wing
of the workers had labored among the idle men, quietly, insidiously,
persistently, successfully. Now, having gained a firm foothold, they
assumed management of the strike, and dictated to the company their
own terms for reëmployment regardless of the demands made by union
officials. Not only at the Barriscale works, but throughout the city,
they made proselytes, and trouble. The discontented, the unthinking,
the reckless, the foreign-born and unnaturalized, gathered under their
leadership. Their logic was convincing, their philosophy alluring,
their promises glittering; indeed, if they were to be believed, the
day of labor’s redemption in Fairweather was at hand. The workers had
only to persist in their demands and to block all resumption of work by
any one until those demands were met, and victory was sure to rest on
their banners.

Into this new, more aggressive, more bitter campaign, Hugo Donatello
plunged with all of his accustomed vigor and enthusiasm. He believed
in his cause. He did not see the ugly side of his propaganda. He was
not at heart a criminal, he was a dreamer. And he dreamed that if the
principle of the solidarity of labor, the international brotherhood
of all who toiled, the distribution of all wealth to those who earned
it by their toil, could once be established in this inland city of
America, the benefit and glory of it would spread from this as a
center, across the continent, across the ocean to bring peace to
war-torn Europe; and the name of Hugo Donatello as chief propagandist
of the new-old philosophy would be acclaimed throughout the civilized
world.

He had not yet made a complete convert of Halpert McCormack. For while
the young lieutenant sympathized deeply with his humanitarian motives,
and, in a general way, with his philosophy of economics, he was not yet
ready to approve of the methods by which the economic millennium was to
be ushered in. Complete disarmament, confiscation of private property,
abolition of restraining laws, sabotage and violence, these things were
not to Hal’s liking; in his view the end did not quite justify the
means. But, under the eloquence of Donatello’s logic, under the power
of his persuasion, under the magic force of his enthusiasm, this young
dreamer and reformer was drifting ever and ever nearer to the rocks
and shoals of that radicalism upon which, if finally and completely
stranded, he was sure to be wrecked.

It goes without saying that Donatello’s weekly Journal, _The
Disinherited_, took up the cause of the more radical element among
the striking workmen with vigor and enthusiasm. The attitude of the
Barriscale corporation, and other manufacturers whose workmen were
out, was characterized as selfish, obstinate and cruel. One issue of
the paper, published some weeks after the inauguration of the strike,
contained an editorial a portion of which ran as follows:

    “Still the situation does not change. Still is justice
    denied to those men by whose labors these very purse-proud
    owners of the mills have become so rich. Now they say that
    strike-breakers will be coming to take the places of those
    honest working-men, and that state soldiery will protect these
    scabs, and that the military company of Fairweather will be
    marched to the mills and ordered by the capitalist employers
    to turn the points of their bayonets against the hearts of
    laborers looking for their own. But all of those members of the
    military company do not have sympathy with these plutocrats and
    hired thugs. What then will be? Will honest and free soldiers
    obey orders to shoot down fellow-toilers, those neighbors and
    friends? Is it for this the military is? Then what young man
    of spirit, of heart-kindness, would join himself with that
    militia, and become the tool of the capitalist class, and
    forced to obey their orders, even to the shedding of the blood
    of fellow-workers?”

On the evening of the day on which the paper containing this article
made its appearance, General Chick entered the drill-hall at the armory
to find a group of militiamen reading, and discussing with some heat,
the editorial in _The Disinherited_.

As the boy approached the crowd, one of the fun-loving members of it
called out to him:

“Here’s a drive at you, Chick. Donatello says that no honest man will
try to join Company E. Where’s that paper? Let Chick read it for
himself.”

The paper was thrust into Chick’s hands and the article pointed out to
him. He took it to the nearest electric sidelight, and slowly, and not
without some difficulty, read it through.

When he returned to the group the young fellow who had spoken to him
said:

“Well, what do you think of it?”

“I think,” replied the boy, “that he’s way off. I got no use for them
dogs in the manger, anyway.”

The humorous soldier turned to his companions. “There’s no doubt,”
he said, “but that Donatello had General Chick in mind when he wrote
that article. He doesn’t want Chick to join Company E, and he’s trying
to bluff him out in advance by assailing his honor and aspersing his
motives. Chick, old boy, I wouldn’t stand for it if I were you.”

Chick never quite knew, when the boys talked to him, whether he was
being addressed in jest or in earnest; and he didn’t know on this
occasion. But he had usually found it safe to assume that those who
gave him information or advice were treating him seriously and he
proceeded now on that assumption.

“It don’t make no difference to me what he says,” replied Chick. “He
can’t scare me out. When I git a chance to jine, I’ll jine.”

“That’s right! and I’d tell him so. I’d put it up to him squarely that
his threats and warnings fall off of you like water off of a duck’s
back.”

“Oh, maybe I’ll see him some time an’ have it out with him.”

“Good! But I wouldn’t wait. ‘Strike while the iron’s hot,’ I say. I’d
tackle him to-morrow about it if I were you.”

But Chick was already shuffling away toward the stack-room and did not
reply. The thing stayed on his mind, however, and the more he thought
of it the more indignant he became. He was not satisfied that Donatello
had had him in mind while writing the editorial. Probably that idea
originated in the minds of the boys; it was not material anyway.

The serious part of it was that, through his newspaper, Donatello had
been making an effort to prevent young men generally from joining the
National Guard; and that, in Chick’s estimation, was an offense which
fell little short of actual treason. He wondered if Donatello did not
know that it was the duty of every young man who was able to do so, to
become a soldier of the State; that it was a patriotic privilege; that
some of the very finest young men in town were members of Company E.
If he didn’t know it, some one ought to tell him. And perhaps no one
was better fitted for the task of telling him than was General Chick,
himself. Perhaps from no one else in the city could the information so
appropriately come.

Many times that night Chick thought about it, and when morning came
he had finally decided to call upon the editor of _The Disinherited_
and enlighten his mind upon this important subject. It was toward
noon, however, before, having finished the performance of the various
tasks which usually occupied his mornings, he found time to make the
visit he had determined upon. When he mounted the rickety stairs
and entered the one large room which was used alike for press-room,
mailing-room and office, he found Donatello there alone, sitting at
a case and setting type. The man recognized him at once and called
him by his name. It was not the first time they had met each other.
Chick looked around him with some curiosity. He had never before been
in a press-room. This one was doubtless the humblest of its type, but
newspapers were printed here, and that fact in itself made the place
important.

Donatello paused in his work and looked at his visitor inquiringly.

“I ain’t never be’n in a printin’ shop before,” said Chick, “and I kind
o’ wanted to see what it looked like.”

“Well,” replied the man, “it is not so much on the looks. But here it
is from which great ideas have gone forth in print.”

“Do you write ’em all?” asked the boy abruptly.

Donatello laughed a little. “I do not write all that which appears in
my paper,” he replied. “But the editorial; yes, that I write.”

Chick drew from his pocket a copy of _The Disinherited_ and pointed to
the article which had disturbed him.

“Did you write that?” he demanded.

The editor laughed again. “Yes, that have I written. Do you like it?
No?”

“No,” replied the boy. “I don’t like it. That’s what I’ve come for;
to tell you I don’t like it. Them fellows ain’t no tools of nobody.
They’re jest soldiers. They obey orders. If them strikers don’t want to
get hurt, let ’em behave theirselves. That’s all they is to it.”

Donatello swung himself around on his stool and stared at General Chick
in amazement. Then his look of surprise gave way to one of amusement.
He clasped his hands over his knee and smiled.

“You champion the cause of militarism?” he asked.

“I don’t know what that is,” replied the boy. “But I b’lieve in the
National Guard, and I b’lieve in Company E, and I expect to jine it
myself the first chance I git.”

“So! you would also the soldier be?”

“Sure I’d be a soldier. Why, the best fellows in town belong to Company
E. Don’t you know that?”

“Some good fellows which I know, they belong; that’s true. And when it
is that you also have belonged, there will be yet one more. Your first
lieutenant, him, in all the city there is no choicer man. Brains he
has. Heart he has. Wisdom he has. What else would you?”

Donatello flung his hands into the air, as though the last word had
been said in the way of encomium, slid down from his stool, went over
and sat in a chair by a littered table, and motioned to Chick to occupy
another chair near by which long ago had lost all semblance of a back.

“Now you’ve said somethin’,” replied Chick, seating himself. “Ain’t no
finer young man in Fairweather ’n what Lieutenant ’Cormack is. Him an’
me’s been friends sence the first day he come into the comp’ny.”

“And he and I, we have been friends since the first day we have met
with each other. Ha! Since we have the mutual friend, you and I, we
also should be friends. Is it not so?”

If Chick had ever felt any real animosity toward the editor of _The
Disinherited_ he found himself now suddenly bereft of it. He could
not look into the frank, friendly eyes of this young man, or note his
winning smile, and harbor any grievance against him.

“Sure!” he said; “I ain’t got nothin’ ag’inst you, ’cept what you put
in the paper ’bout the Guard, and I guess you know now that you was on
the wrong track, don’t you?”

Donatello did not answer the question. A new thought seemed to have
come to him.

“Where is it that you work?” he asked.

“Oh,” replied the boy, “I do odd chores around mornin’s. I ain’t got no
stiddy, all-day job.”

“How would you like it; an all-day job?”

“Doin’ what?”

“Working here with me.”

“Printin’ the paper?”

“Yes. Running the press. Washing the type. Sweeping the room. Going on
the errand, peddling the paper. Oh, a what you call the general utility
man. A man of all the work.”

Chick threw a comprehensive glance around the room, as if to take in
the situation.

“You want a man?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How much you want to pay?”

“For the all-day job?”

“No, for half a day. I got customers I can’t give up mornin’s.”

“Well, let me see! I pay you forty cents for the half day.”

“’Tain’t enough,” replied Chick promptly.

“Fifty cents.”

“That’s more like it; but you’ll have to stretch it a little furder.”

“Fifty-five. I will not pay more.”

“All right! I’m your huckleberry.”

Chick’s eyes snapped, and a flush came into his cheeks. Here was a
steady job facing him on his own terms. He did not doubt his ability to
handle it. He felt that the employment would be congenial. He accepted
the place without question. There was more discussion concerning
the nature of the duties which the new employee was to perform, his
hours of labor, and the day on which he should begin work. But these
matters were easily settled, and when Chick rose to go the bargain was
complete. He felt now that he had taken his proper place in the army
of workers. He had what he had long wanted, a regular job. Moreover,
the nature of his task, that of assisting in the preparation and
publication of a weekly journal, was such as to justify him in assuming
an air of importance commensurate with the character of his duties.

When he reached the head of the stairs on his way out a thought came to
him and he turned back.

“I want it understood,” he said to Donatello, “that, so long as I’m
helpin’ to git out this paper, they mustn’t be no jumpin’ on the
National Guard, nor on Company E. I won’t stand for it.”

“And if it should be so that there is?” Donatello’s voice was smooth
and musical.

“I’ll resign my position,” declared Chick.

“Very well! That bridge we will cross when we have reached it.”

The next day General Chick was added to the working staff of _The
Disinherited_.

On a day late in April, Hal received a note from Donatello asking him
to call that evening at the printing-room of _The Disinherited_. It was
not an unusual request, nor was it the first time that Hal had visited
the quarters of the social radical.

At the street door he found General Chick who was looking up and down
the walk and apparently waiting for him. Chick had been for some months
now in Donatello’s employ. He did miscellaneous work about the place,
went on errands, washed type, delivered papers, put his hands to almost
every task that a boy with a lop-shoulder and a crooked back could be
expected to do. He was not overworked. Donatello treated him kindly,
paid him living wages, and made a friend of him. All in all it was the
best job Chick had ever had.

When he let McCormack in he closed and locked the street door before
going with him down the dimly lighted hall to the printing-room. It was
in this room that Hal found, in Donatello’s company, two men whom he
knew by sight, but whom he had not before personally met. One of them
was distinctly a foreigner; big, muscular, shrewd-eyed, with black hair
hanging to his shoulders, and a large, loose, black tie floating from
his throat down onto his breast. He was introduced simply as Gabriel.
The other man, so far as appearance and accent went, was a well-to-do
American. His name was given as Kranich. Donatello explained that they
had come in from a neighboring city to assist the local leaders in
bringing the strike to a successful conclusion. They wanted to know
from Lieutenant McCormack what the attitude of the soldiers of the
National Guard would be in the event of their being called out on
strike duty. More specifically they wanted to know what the attitude of
Lieutenant McCormack himself would be, in the not impossible event of
his being in command of Company E on such an occasion.

Donatello interrupted the conversation at this point by asking Chick
to go and lock the door leading into the hall. This was an important
conference, he said, and it was not worth while to run the risk of
interruption.

So Chick locked the door, and came back and sat down on a wobbly stool,
by a dilapidated case, and listened, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, to the
discussion.

“You know it is our theory,” explained Kranich, “that the workmen are
as much owners of their jobs as the employers are owners of their
plants; and that they have as much right to prevent other men from
taking those jobs away from them as the mill owners would have to
prevent other capitalists from seizing their mills by force. What we
want to know is, in case of an attempt by our men to resume their jobs,
or to prevent other men from appropriating them, what your personal
attitude would be if you were called out, as an officer of the National
Guard, to prevent disorder. Would your guns be pointed toward us or
toward our enemies?”

“I would,” replied Hal, “obey the orders of my superior officer.”

“Suppose you, yourself, were in command of the company?”

“I would do my duty as a Guardsman.”

“Exactly! And, what would be your duty? to protect honest workmen in
their efforts to obtain possession of the tools of their employment, or
to bayonet and shoot us at the behest of capitalists and scabs?”

Before Hal could reply Donatello interrupted. He feared that McCormack
might be antagonized by such blunt and embarrassing questions. He knew,
from long experience, that persuasion, not bluff, was the weapon with
which to fight the prejudices of the young Guardsman.

“You do not need so closely to question him!” he exclaimed. “I know
him. He is safe. He believes in the solidarity of labor the world over.
His sympathies, they are with our men in this struggle for the human
rights. Is it not so, Lieutenant?”

“It is decidedly so,” replied Hal.

“And he will that way interpret his duty as officer to do least injury
to us, his brothers. Is it not so, Lieutenant?”

“That is correct,” replied Hal. “I do not intend to fail in the
performance of my duty in any quarter.”

Donatello turned toward his guests with a wide sweep of his hands.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “with that we must be content.”

But it was an hour later, after much discussion of economic problems,
and the methods by which they were to be solved, that Chick unlocked
the door and let Lieutenant McCormack out into the street. And neither
of them saw the figure of a man patiently waiting in a dark recess two
doors away, a man who had seen all of Donatello’s guests arrive, and
who was waiting to see them all depart.

Later on, as Hal thought over his visit to the printing shop, he felt
that he had said nothing that he did not fully believe, that he had
made no promise either of action or inaction that he did not stand
ready to fulfil. It was very true that his sympathies were with the
working class of men. He seconded all their efforts for their own
betterment. He felt that some day labor, united, harmonious, acting in
concert, under one leadership the world over, would move its enormous
body, would rise, tremble, stretch itself like some great giant, and
in the process would upheave society; and that out of the tumult and
confusion and wreckage would arise a new social order in which every
man would be the equal of every other man in all things material and
immaterial with which a beneficent Creator had endowed them. It was a
dream, perhaps. Donatello had dreamed it. His two visitors had dreamed
it. A hundred thousand men with toil-hardened hands, under the shadow
of the Stars and Stripes, had dreamed it. Countless millions in the old
world, under the iron heel of autocracy, had died dreaming it. Yet,
some day, notwithstanding the natural perverseness of the human heart,
the dream was bound to come true. So the dreamers believed; so they
taught, and to that end they struggled and fought.

But the question of immediate moment to Halpert McCormack, a question
that pressed ever more and more persistently into his heart and
conscience, was, whether he, with opinions and beliefs so radically
at variance with those of the governing class of his country, had a
moral right to belong to, much less to be an officer in, the National
Guard. And the more he pondered upon this question, the more imperative
it seemed to him to be that he should put an end to a situation so
anomalous, a situation which in certain contingencies that might at any
moment arise, would become awkward, acute and impossible. His military
connection was the only link that still held him to the world of
conservatism; he might as well snap it and be entirely free.

So, without consultation with any one, for he had no friend with whom
he felt that it would be profitable for him to consult, he prepared
for the final step.

He entered the office of Captain Murray on an afternoon preceding
the weekly drill, and asked for a private interview. His request was
granted. The captain looked worried and apprehensive.

“I have been expecting you to come,” he said. “If you hadn’t done so I
should have sent for you. But I’ll hear your errand first. What is it?”

“It is nothing of great importance,” replied Hal. “I simply want to
show you this paper which I have decided to send to-day to Colonel
Wagstaff.”

Captain Murray took the paper, unfolded it slowly, and read it aloud:

    “_To the Adjutant General of Pennsylvania_:
    (_Through Intermediate Headquarters_)

    “Now holding the office of First Lieutenant in Company E, of
    the ----th Infantry, Third Brigade, of the National Guard
    of Pennsylvania, in consequence of holding certain economic
    views and opinions inconsistent with such position, I hereby
    tender my resignation of said office, and request an honorable
    discharge therefrom.

    “I am not under arrest, nor returned to court martial, nor the
    subject of any charges for any deficiency or delinquency, and
    I am ready to deliver over or account for all monies, books or
    other property of the State in my possession, and for which I
    am accountable, to the officer authorized by law to receive the
    same, and my accounts for money or public property are correct,
    and I am not indebted to the State.

    “HALPERT MCCORMACK,
    _First Lieutenant_.”

Captain Murray finished reading the paper and looked up wearily and
anxiously at Hal.

“I have been expecting this,” he said. “I am not greatly surprised.
But--it comes too late.”

“Why too late, Captain?”

“Because charges have already been filed against you, and a court
martial demanded. I suppose you would not want to retire under fire
even though you should be permitted to do so.”

“I don’t know. It would depend on the nature of the charges. May I see
a copy of the complaint?”

“Certainly!”

Captain Murray turned to his desk, drew a long envelope from a
pigeonhole, removed a formal-looking document therefrom, and handed the
document to Lieutenant McCormack to read.




CHAPTER XIV


The document which Captain Murray handed to McCormack to read comprised
the charges and specifications that had been filed against the first
lieutenant. It had apparently been drawn with much skill and care, and
it read as follows:

    “To CAPTAIN ROBERT J. MURRAY,
    _Commanding Company E, ----th Regiment Infantry N. G. P._

    “SIR:

    “The undersigned citizens of Fairweather in the county of
    Benson beg leave to file with you the following charges and
    specifications against First Lieutenant Halpert McCormack of
    your company, and request you to formulate said charges and
    specifications, and, through intermediate headquarters, present
    them to the proper military authority, and request a hearing
    upon them by court martial.

    “CHARGE I. Using contemptuous and disrespectful words against
    the President and the Congress of the United States, in
    violation of the 19th Article of War.

    “_Specification._ In that the said First Lieutenant Halpert
    McCormack, did on or about the 20th day of April, 1916, declare
    publicly, in the presence and hearing of numerous persons, that
    the President and the Congress of the United States were but
    the tools of organized wealth, and deserved neither the respect
    nor obedience of honest and right-thinking men.

    “CHARGE II. ‘Conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman,’ in
    violation of the 61st and 62nd Articles of War.

    “_Specification 1._ In that the said First Lieutenant Halpert
    McCormack, by principle, declaration and practice, is a
    socialist, a syndicalist, an anarchist, and a sympathizer with
    and believer in the principles and methods of an organization
    known as ‘The Industrial Workers of the World,’ which
    organization is inimical to law, order and public safety.

    “_Specification 2._ In that the said First Lieutenant Halpert
    McCormack has declared himself opposed to the suppression of
    mobs and riots by military force.

    “_Specification 3._ In that the said First Lieutenant Halpert
    McCormack has declared that the rights of property are not
    sacred as against the efforts of wage-earners who desire to
    take possession of such property by force.

    “_Specification 4._ In that the said First Lieutenant Halpert
    McCormack has declared that his loyalty to the red flag of
    anarchism takes precedence of his loyalty to the Stars and
    Stripes.

    “In further explanation of Charge II and the specifications
    thereunder, the undersigned desire to add that they represent
    the ownership of certain manufacturing plants in this
    community, from which many of the workmen have voluntarily
    withdrawn on strike; that many of such workmen, together with
    a large number of irresponsible and disorderly persons, urged
    on and inflamed by anarchistic leaders, have threatened to take
    possession of these plants by force, or to damage or destroy
    them, and it may be necessary for the owners to call on the
    militia of the State for the protection of their property and
    the safeguarding of the lives of their loyal employees.

    “_Signed_,

    THE BARRISCALE MANUFACTURING CO.,
    by Benj. Barriscale, Sr., _President_.

    THE FAIRWEATHER MACHINE CO.,
    by Don. G. Albertson, _President_.

    THE BENSON COUNTY IRON WORKS,
    by Rufus Ingersoll, _Vice-President_.”

Lieutenant McCormack looked up from the reading of the charges with
eyes that were dazed and incredulous.

“Well,” said Captain Murray, “what do you think of it?”

“Why,” replied Hal, “it’s not true; not any of it.”

“Probably not,” replied the captain, “but you’ll have to meet it all
the same. I’ve got to forward the complaint to headquarters. I’ve no
discretion in the matter.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

Hal was still staring almost stupidly at his commander. The sweeping
nature of the charges, their bluntness and brutality, had given him
a shock from which he did not at once recover. For years he had been
inviting just such a calamity as this, but now that it had come, in
this direct and drastic form, the suddenness of it had quite taken away
his breath.

Captain Murray handed Hal’s resignation back to him.

“You won’t want to file this now,” he said.

“No,” replied Hal, taking it, “I guess not. I think--I think I’ll deny
those charges.”

“Of course you will. And let me tell you, you’ve got a very pretty
fight on your hands. It’ll be no boy’s play. The Barriscales are
determined. You know you’ve got yourself into this predicament
by flirting with economic vagaries, and associating with radical
charlatans. I’m willing to do what I can to help you out provided
you’ll put up a vigorous defense on your own account. I want to keep
you in the Guard.”

“Thank you, Captain! What would you suggest?”

“I think you’d better go and get Brownell to take up your case, and
defend you. He’s a good lawyer and a good friend of yours. If anybody
can save you he can.”

“Very well, I’ll speak to him. In the meantime I suppose I may be
considered as being under arrest?”

“No; I’ve thought about that. These charges are still in the nature
of a complaint from private citizens. They will not become official
until I have acted on them. But I feel that I cannot afford to ignore
them. The Army Regulations provide that the commanding officer with
whom any charges are filed shall state, in forwarding them, whether
the charges can be sustained. I cannot say that these charges will not
be sustained, but I can and will say that I do not think the filing of
them warrants your immediate arrest. You will therefore continue to
perform your usual duties until the court itself shall order otherwise.”

“Thank you, Captain Murray! You are very generous.”

“And, McCormack, if you get out of this thing safely--and let me tell
you frankly that the chances are against you, for you’ve been skating
on mighty thin ice,--but if you should pull through all right, for
heaven’s sake let go of all these visionary schemes! Come back to solid
earth, and be a plain American citizen along with the rest of us!”

Hal did go to see Brownell. And although Brownell gave him a severe
dressing-down for what he termed his crass foolishness, he agreed,
nevertheless, to take up his case, and he did so with vigor and
avidity, for he was fond of the first lieutenant and would have
gone through fire and water for him. But when it came to the actual
preparation for the defense Hal could give his counsel little
assistance. The accused man knew of no specific circumstances on which
the charges could have been based, nor of any witnesses whom he could
call to disprove them. And while he was obliged to admit that he had
undoubtedly said things that might give color to the complaint, he was
nevertheless certain that the specifications as they were drawn were
untrue.

So Brownell, with a listless client and a weak case before him, had
a man’s task on hand to make up a defense. But he plunged into the
work bravely. He cross-examined and badgered McCormack by the hour.
He interviewed Donatello, General Chick, Miss Halpert, any one and
every one who might by any possibility be able to throw light on the
situation. He studied the law of the matter and exhausted the logic of
his fertile mind in the preparation of arguments and briefs. And after
he had done everything that legal knowledge and human ingenuity could
help him to do to make ready his defense, he admitted confidentially
to Captain Murray that the case was hopeless, and, incidentally, he
brought down severe maledictions on the head of the first lieutenant,
who, by his ridiculous vagaries and indiscretions, had wrought his own
destruction.

One day General Chick came to Brownell’s office with flushed face and
staring eyes.

“They’ve put me through the third degree,” he said.

“What do you mean?” asked Brownell; “talk!”

“Why, they suspœnaed me into Jim Hooper’s place an’ made me tell
everything Lieutenant ’Cormack said that night he met them strike
leaders in Donatello’s shop.”

“For the love of Pete! I didn’t know he met them.”

“Sure he met ’em. I was there.”

“What did you say he told them?”

“Why, now, I said he told ’em he believed them men o’ Barriscale’s had
a right to their jobs, and if Barriscale didn’t give ’em back to ’em
they had a right to take ’em anyway.”

“Yes; go on!”

Brownell was gripping the arms of his chair in grim despair.

“An’ he said--he said ’at he wouldn’t never give no orders to no
soldiers to shoot workin’ men tryin’ to git their places back.”

“Oh, gosh!” The second lieutenant released his grips on the arms of
the chair and clasped his head with both his hands. “The jig’s up!” he
continued. “You’ve done it, Chick!”

“Done what, Mr. Brownell?”

“Given the enemy enough ammunition to blow Lieutenant McCormack into
the middle of next week.”

“Will--will what I told ’em hurt ’im?”

“Hurt him! Thunder and Mars! It’ll send him to a military prison for
life.”

Stunned, dazed, almost unseeing, Chick stumbled out of Brownell’s
office into the street. Had the lieutenant for one minute realized
what a staggering blow he had given to the boy, he would have dropped
everything and hurried after him and disabused his simple mind of
its belief in the enormity of his offense. As it was, the wretched
hunchback, with an awful, self-accusing finger, piercing into his very
vitals, hot and ice-cold by turns, slunk back to hide himself in his
dingy corner in the printing-shop of Donatello. For if there was one
thing on earth that he would have lost his right hand rather than to
have done, it was a thing that might in any way have been injurious to
Halpert McCormack. And if there was one person on earth for whom he
would willingly have laid down his life and thought it a joy to do so,
that person was his beloved first lieutenant.

The strike at the Barriscale plant, and at other smaller plants
throughout the city, dragged on through the spring, unsettled and
unbroken. But in May, just before starvation on the one side and
insolvency on the other became an acute possibility, the union men,
through an intermediate committee of interested citizens, came to terms
with the companies.

The employers on the one hand made certain concessions, the employees
on the other hand waived certain demands, and a settlement was reached.

But the leaders of the radicals would have none of it. Their men would
not go back, they declared, until every original demand had been fully
met, nor would they permit the union employees to resume work without
them. Moreover, when they did return it would not be as wage-slaves,
under a humiliating agreement, but as proprietors, having at least
an equal voice with their former employers in the management of the
business and the distribution of its profits. For was it not one of the
chief tenets of their organization that:

    “There is but one bargain which industrial workers will make
    with the employing class, complete surrender of all control of
    industry to the Organized Workers.”

So the companies were ground between the upper millstone of unionism
and the nether millstone of syndicalism. But, when the shops were
opened, the union men, under the protection of the police, disregarding
the threats of their former companions in idleness, went back to work.
The effort to prevent them by force from doing so was unsuccessful.
There were some broken heads and bruised bodies, and the Industrialists
retired from the conflict defeated, but sullen and revengeful. Then
they picketed the plants, they waylaid workmen, they threatened
destruction of property. Under the leadership of Gabriel and Kranich,
they kept the laboring element of the community in a turmoil, the
proprietors of the mills in a state of constant apprehension, the
peaceful citizens of the community fearful lest at any moment the
volcano rumbling and grumbling under the feet of industry should break
out in violent eruption.

Such was the situation on the day that the court martial convened
at Fairweather to try the charges against First Lieutenant Halpert
McCormack.

The session was held in the large company room which was crowded to
the doors with both Guardsmen and civilians.

The court consisted of five commissioned officers and a judge advocate,
none of them under the grade of captain. The commissioned officers were
in full dress, wearing their swords; the judge advocate was in undress
uniform without his sword. It was his business to protect both the
organized militia and the rights of the accused. The ranking officer
present was Colonel Wagstaff, who presided.

The accused man, with his counsel, Lieutenant Brownell, sat at a
side table, and the Barriscales, father and son, representing the
complainants, sat with their counsel, Captain Flower of Company A, at
another table. The scene was impressive, the atmosphere of the place
was tense with suppressed excitement.

After the order convening the court had been read, and the members of
the court had been duly sworn, the defendant was arraigned and the
charges and specifications were read to him. He was, necessarily, the
center of interest. Standing there in full dress uniform without his
sword, pale, and somewhat haggard from loss of sleep, he nevertheless
looked the soldier that he was. He knew that his case was hopeless.
Brownell had told him so at the last. All that he expected now to do
was to try to justify himself, so far as possible, in the eyes of the
community. Beyond that he was ready to submit to the judgment of the
court. So, when the time came for him to plead, he answered in a voice
firm with the consciousness of innocence of the charges as drawn and
brought against him:

“Not guilty.”

Then began the calling of witnesses. There were plenty of them indeed
who had heard the defendant say that in his opinion the wage system
was all wrong, that wealth obtained from the product of labor should
be fairly divided between the capitalist and the workman, and that his
sympathies in the present industrial conflict were entirely with the
men, all of whom should be permitted to resume their old places on
their own terms. There was more evidence to the effect that McCormack
had declared that the President and the Congress were but pawns in
the hands of wealth, and that the present political system was but
an instrument for the exploitation of labor. It was all very crude,
sophomoric and harmless, but it had about it an air of disloyalty that
was distinctly damaging to the chances of the young defendant.

Then First Sergeant Ben Barriscale was called to the stand as a witness
for the prosecution. He could do little more than to repeat, in
substance, the evidence already given, but he made it stronger, more
direct, more convincing. He laid especial stress on the attitude of the
defendant toward the parties in the existing strike, his criticism of
the owners of the mills, his sympathy with the idle workmen who were
threatening revenge and disorder. While the animus of the witness was
plain, his testimony was not to be lightly considered.

Brownell took him in hand for cross-examination.

“You and the defendant were rival candidates last year for the office
of first lieutenant, were you not?”

“I was a candidate,” replied the witness sharply. “I believe the
defendant was one also.”

“And the defendant won out?”

“By one vote, yes.”

“And you felt pretty sore about it?”

“I felt humiliated and outraged because his rank was inferior to mine,
and, holding the opinions he did and does, he had no right to the
office.”

“And you declared, at the time of the election, in the presence of the
entire company, that either McCormack would be dismissed from the Guard
or you would get out of it; that you would refuse to serve in the same
company with him; you said that, did you not?”

“I did, and I repeat it now. He’s not a fit man for any loyal Guardsman
to serve with or under.”

Barriscale’s voice, resonant with wrath, reached to every corner of
the room. The members of the court glanced at one another in apparent
surprise and apprehension.

Brownell waved his hand to the witness and said smilingly:

“That is all.”

When Ben left the stand the elder Barriscale was called to it to tell
of existing industrial conditions in the city, and of the danger of
violent interference with peaceful workmen and the rights of property;
such interference as might, and probably would, in the absence of the
state police, call for protection at the hands of the National Guard.
He gave it as his judgment, although the admission of his declaration
was strenuously objected to by Brownell as being but opinion evidence,
that it would be utterly unsafe to entrust the protection of property
and the lives of workmen to a body of troops in command of an officer
with the record of Lieutenant McCormack.

“Mr. Barriscale,” asked Brownell, on cross-examination, “are you aware
that when Lieutenant McCormack received his commission, he swore to
defend the constitution of the United States and of this State, against
all enemies, foreign and domestic?”

“I presume he did,” was the curt reply.

“And you believe that he now stands ready to violate that oath?”

“I believe that the oath means nothing to him as against the red-flag
and red-hand policy that he advocates, and the traitorous class whose
cause he has taken up.”

“You share with your son a certain resentment and bitterness against
the defendant on account of his success in the election to the first
lieutenancy?”

“I thought and still think, sir, that that election was an outrage
against decency. No self-respecting man should be content to serve
under an officer so elected, and so identified with the worst elements
in the community.”

The witness’s face was red with rage, and he pounded the table in front
of him with his clenched fist as he spoke.

“That is all, Mr. Barriscale.”

Suave and smiling, Brownell waved the manufacturer from the stand.

To draw from a witness an admission of hatred for the person against
whom he is testifying is to give a body blow to the value of his
testimony, and in this respect Brownell was well satisfied with his
cross-examination of the Barriscales, both father and son.

Then came the star witness for the prosecution in the person of Chick
Dalloway. Poor Chick! For two hours he had been waiting outside the
court-room in abject misery. Since the day when Brownell revealed
to him the probable result of having given certain information to
McCormack’s enemies, he had scarcely eaten or slept. Once he had
gone to McCormack himself, to bewail his unfortunate revelations. It
was pitiful to see him. Hal tried to cheer and comfort him, but he
would not be comforted. Now, at the trial, under the badgering of
Barriscale’s lawyer he was about to clinch the fate of the best friend
he had on earth. He knew it. He knew that after he had said what he
would be compelled to say, Halpert McCormack would be discredited as a
citizen and disgraced as a soldier; and he, Chick Dalloway, would be
absolutely powerless to prevent it.

He walked up between the rows of chairs, moving from side to side as he
went. His knees were strangely weak. His face was pale and drawn, and
his eyes seemed to be looking into some far distance.

He took the oath and dropped into the witness-chair by the table, and
waited for the torture that he knew would be his, and for the tragedy
that was bound to swallow up his beloved lieutenant.




CHAPTER XV


The buzz of excitement due to Chick’s appearance on the witness stand
had scarcely subsided, and the first question had not yet been asked
him, when a man, breathless and perturbed, entered the court-room,
pushed his way up to the table where the Barriscales were sitting,
and announced, in a loud whisper, that a riot was at that moment in
progress at the Barriscale mills. Immediately all was confusion.
People began hastily to leave the room, and the president of the court
martial, after consulting with his associates, and with counsel on both
sides, announced an adjournment until the following Tuesday.

There had, indeed, been a serious disturbance on the plaza in front
of the mills, but by the time the Barriscales reached there the
trouble was practically over. Two men, returning from their dinners
to their work in the shops, had been set upon by pickets of the
Industrialists and badly beaten. Supporters of both sides had hurried
to the scene, and the fracas had promised to be a bloody one when the
police, heavily reinforced by Barriscale guards, descended upon the
combatants, rescued the union workers, and clubbed their adversaries
from the plaza. But when the mob, frenzied and cursing, had been driven
back, the rioters left one of their number prone and bleeding on the
pavement, and that one was a woman, Marie Brussiloff, the boldest and
most bigoted leader of the local Industrialist army. She was lifted
up by the police, thrust into an ambulance, rattled away to the City
Hospital, and for many a day her comrades saw her no more. But her fate
aroused such a spirit of resentment and revenge as boded ill for the
forces of law and order, for the safety of capitalist property, and for
the lives of union workmen.

That evening as Donatello sat at his table in the office and press-room
of _The Disinherited_, he heard footsteps on the stairs and recognized
them. It was General Chick who was coming. No one else had quite the
same method of climbing the stairs.

When the boy came stumbling in, and the editor caught a glimpse of his
face in the lamplight, he was startled at its appearance. He had not
seen him before for two days. With the court-martial impending it had
been impossible for Chick to follow the routine of his regular tasks.
Now he stood there, his cap in his hand, white faced, trembling with
the excitement that was still on him, the pain of his unfortunate
position still mirrored in his eyes.

If there had been, in Donatello’s mind, any thought of rebuking his
dilatory employee, that thought disappeared when he looked at him. Any
one could see that the boy was suffering.

“Why, Chick!” he exclaimed, “what is the matter? Have you been sick;
yes?”

“No,” replied Chick stoutly; “I ain’t been sick; I been busy. I jest
come to say I’m goin’ to quit.”

“To quit? You mean you will leave my employ?”

“That’s what I mean. I can’t stan’ it here no longer.”

“The work; is it too hard?”

“No; that’s easy enough.”

“Is it that I have been unkind to you?”

“No; I ain’t got no fault to find the way I been treated. It’s account
o’ Lieutenant ’Cormack.”

“Has he asked you that you quit?”

“No; no! He ain’t asked nothin’. But if I hadn’t ’a’ be’n here I
wouldn’t ’a’ got into this trouble. If I hadn’t ’a’ heard what he said
here that night I wouldn’t ’a’ had to be a witness ag’inst him. Now
I’ve got to tell; and it’s goin’ to break him. I hadn’t no business to
come here in the first place.”

Chick dropped into a chair, put his elbow on the table and rested his
head in his hand. He was a picture of despair. Donatello gazed at him
curiously for a moment, and said nothing. But when he did speak his
voice was vibrant with sympathy.

“It is not you,” he said, “who should yourself accuse. You have done
nothing. If it is to blame, the fault is mine. It was I who asked him
that he come. It was I who brought him into contact with these men to
whom he spoke words. You have simply heard them. The law, it makes you
tell that which you have heard. How can fault be yours?”

He spread out his hands appealingly.

“I don’t know,” replied Chick, wearily. “All I know is I hadn’t ought
to ’a’ come here; and I’m goin’ to quit. That’s what I come for, to
tell you I’m goin’ to quit. An’ you don’t owe me nothin’. You’ve
treated me white; I want to be fair with you.”

Even if there had been any basis for contention, Donatello would not
have had the heart to argue the matter. The boy was suffering too
keenly, and it was evident that his mind was made up.

“It is as you will,” he said. “It must be so. If it is that I can
commend you to the future employer, you shall ask it. I will so
do--gladly.”

“You’re good to say that,” replied Chick. “But I won’t need no
recommend. I won’t never take no job in a printin’ shop ag’in.”

He was through with his errand and he rose to go. He appeared to be
dizzy, and Donatello, thinking he was about to fall, rose and reached
toward him a helping hand.

But the boy steadied himself without assistance and stood firm.

“It ain’t nothin’,” he said. “I used to have them spells; but I got
over ’em. I’ll git over these.”

He put on his cap, said good-night to his sometime employer, and left
the room. Donatello went with him to the head of the stairs and saw him
reach the bottom of the flight in safety, then he returned to his room.
But he did not immediately resume his work. He sat, for many minutes,
his chin in his hand, in deep thought.

The day following the outbreak at the mills was Saturday. From early
morning rumors of further trouble had filled the air. Yet everything
was quiet. No union workmen had been molested, even the pickets of the
Industrial workers had been withdrawn. People versed in the ways of
syndicalism predicted that it was the calm before the storm. They were
right.

At noon, information, carried by dependable spies, reached the Barriscale
headquarters to the effect that the cause of the Industrialists in
Fairweather had been taken up by their brethren in a neighboring city,
and that active and aggressive aid was to be immediately forthcoming.
Incensed at the treatment of their fellows by the police, angered that
one of their women should be wounded, they were to march in a body on
the Barriscale works, and demand reinstatement for their brethren, under
penalty of having the works taken over by the Industrialist army.

It was a desperate programme; it called for drastic measures of
prevention. The chief of police admitted that his force would be unable
to cope with such a body of marchers and rioters as the Industrialists
could undoubtedly muster. The state police had troubles of their own at
the coal mines and could not be spared. It was plain that the National
Guard must be looked to for protection.

An appeal to the Governor of the State by the mayor of Fairweather
resulted, after a considerable exchange of telegrams, in the giving of
authority to use the militia to prevent rioting.

It was late in the afternoon when the order came down through
regimental headquarters to Captain Murray to mobilize his men at the
armory, to hold them in readiness for immediate action, and to use
his discretion about putting them into the field. At seven o’clock
ninety-five per cent of the enlisted men were present at the armory and
under arms. They were lounging about the drill-hall, sitting in the
company room, indulging in athletic sports in the basement. Some one
said that the story of the proposed invasion was a false alarm anyway,
and that there would be nothing doing. At seven-thirty Captain Murray
jumped into a waiting automobile and started for his home, promising to
return inside of an hour. At half-past eight the telephone bell in the
officers’ quarters rang viciously again and again.

“Central must be having a fit!” said the second lieutenant putting the
receiver to his ear.

McCormack, facing him as he sat, saw his eyes widen and his face go
white. Brownell turned from the transmitter long enough to explain to
Hal:

“Murray’s been in a smash-up; badly hurt; taken to hospital!”

Then he asked some hurried questions of the person who was talking to
him, apparently obtained all the information he could, and hung up the
receiver. Hal still sat facing him with expectant and apprehensive eyes.

“That’s terrible!” exclaimed the second lieutenant.

“What happened?” asked McCormack.

“Why, there was an automobile collision down somewhere on Main Street.
Lewis just telephoned me. Tipped Murray’s car over, broke his leg,
smashed his ribs. He’s still unconscious.”

Brownell got to his feet and began pacing hurriedly up and down the
floor.

But Hal sank back in his chair, frightened, nerveless and speechless.
He knew that, with Captain Murray disabled, the command of Company E
would devolve upon him, and in his heart he knew that he was not fit to
be entrusted with that authority. No wonder his pulse fluttered, and
his breath came quick, and that he stared across the room with unseeing
eyes.

Brownell stopped now and then, in his hurried marching, to give vent to
his feelings of grief and anxiety, but McCormack, submerged in thought,
was still silent.

Some one knocked at the door and came in to give details, that he had
learned from an eye-witness, of the accident to Captain Murray.

Down-stairs the drill-hall buzzed with excitement and indignation. For
it was suspected that the injury to the captain was the result of a
plot to deprive the company of the services of its regular leader at
a critical time, and throw the command to an officer whose declared
sympathies were with the prospective rioters. There appeared to have
been no excuse for the accident. A car containing two strangers,
evidently of some foreign nationality, had deliberately collided with
Captain Murray’s automobile at the corner of Main Street and Maple
Avenue. The reckless drivers had been arrested and committed to the
lock-up, but would give no information concerning themselves or their
errand in the city. Barriscale was loud in his demand that a committee
should go to Lieutenant Brownell and insist on his assuming command
of the company; but the proposition was frowned down by most of the
enlisted men. In spite of all that they had heard and seen they still
had faith in the first lieutenant and were willing to go out under his
leadership.

At nine o’clock Brownell and McCormack commandeered a car and drove to
the hospital. But their visit was fruitless. Captain Murray could not
be seen. He was in a serious condition, semi-conscious, beginning to
suffer greatly. His wife and daughter were in the corridor with white
faces and tearful eyes, tormented with anxiety.

When the two commissioned officers returned to the armory they learned
that news had come over the wire confirming the rumor of an invasion.
It was definitely stated that a large number of radicals and terrorists
were secretly preparing to leave the neighboring city some time in the
night and march to Fairweather on a hostile errand. But they had not
yet started, and Fairweather was twelve miles away.

So, at ten o’clock, the Guardsmen took their shelter-tent rolls and
blankets, adjusted them for sleeping purposes, and flung themselves
down on the armory floor to rest until the command should come to “fall
in.”

Then some one inquired for Chick, and it was recalled that he had not
been seen at the armory all the afternoon and evening. Every one knew
that excitement like this would have been meat and drink to him. Why
was he not here?

Up-stairs, in the officers’ quarters, McCormack and Brownell were
again alone. The second lieutenant was reading up on field maneuvers.
The first lieutenant, torn with conflicting emotions and desires, was
pacing the floor. Suddenly he stopped, and faced Brownell.

“Joe,” he said, “you’ve got to take this company out when the time
comes; I can’t!”

Brownell looked up at him incredulously.

“What’s the reason you can’t?” he inquired.

“Because I’m not fit to. Because, after what they heard in court
yesterday, the boys will have no confidence in me. Because I’m under
court-martial, and ought to be under arrest. Because I’m afraid of
myself. If the worst comes to the worst there’ll be a conflict between
my duty to the Guard and the State, and my duty to those with whose
cause I sympathize. You know what I mean. Can’t you see how utterly
impossible it is for me to take command of this company?”

He held out his hands appealingly.

“No,” replied Brownell, promptly, “I can’t see. You’re the ranking
officer, and----”

Hal interrupted him impatiently:

“That doesn’t matter. I’ll go away. I’ll leave the city. I’ll make it a
necessity for you to assume command.”

Brownell began to show impatience.

“You’ll do nothing of the kind!” he exclaimed. “You’ll do your duty to
the State and the Guard and yourself. This gang of hoodlums? Why, man,
they’re not men looking for their jobs! They’re just common rioters and
bullies and criminals, bent on tearing the constitution of the United
States to bits, and throwing the pieces into the gutter. Look here! do
you know what you swore to do when you took your oath as a commissioned
officer? You swore to defend the constitution of the United States and
of this State against all enemies foreign and domestic. Now, go and do
it. It’s up to you. It’s the first chance you’ve had. Go and do it!”

“But, Joe, I know these people. I know what their aspirations are, and
I know they are sincere. Their leaders are my friends. How could I give
orders to shoot them down?”

Brownell sprang from his chair. At last his patience was exhausted.

“Friends!” he shouted savagely. “Your friends! These thugs! These
would-be murderers! And your own captain their first victim! Why, you
cringing coward you, your blood ought to boil in your veins when you
think of the crimes of which these traitors have been and want to be
guilty. Friends! Heaven save the mark!”

Hal did not get angry; he could not. He knew that Brownell was
castigating him because he loved him. He dropped into a chair by the
table and rested his head in his hands and was silent. Then his
comrade, knowing that he was suffering, took pity on him, and came over
and placed an affectionate hand on his shoulder.

“Forgive me, old man!” he said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. The thing
got on my nerves and I had to let go. But you’re dead wrong. You’re in
command of this company, and you’ve got to take it out.”

McCormack looked up wearily.

“At the risk,” he said, “of leading it into disaster and disgrace? Why
do you compel me to face such a temptation as this?”

Brownell’s hand tightened on Hal’s shoulder.

“Because,” he replied, “I know you and trust you. I know what things
lie at the bottom of your heart; red blood, pure patriotism, soldierly
pride, the honor of a gentleman. I was never so little afraid of
anything in my life as I am that you will either disgrace us, or
dishonor yourself.”

The first lieutenant did not reply. He was about to say something, but
his lips trembled, his eyes filled with tears, and he dropped his head
again into his hands and was silent.

Down-stairs all was quiet. The Guardsmen were sleeping. Through an open
window of the officers’ quarters there came the measured tramp of the
sentry on the flagged walk outside.

At midnight the sky was clear, the stars were shining, the street-lights
across the river gleamed like blazing jewels in the darkness. And over
the sleeping world hung still the portent of evil and the promise of
strife.

At five o’clock on Sunday morning the call came. Word was received at
the armory that a marching mob, three hundred strong, was approaching
the outskirts of Fairweather. At five-thirty, in command of Lieutenant
McCormack, Company E was on the plaza fronting the Barriscale mills.
Hot coffee and biscuits had been served to the men before leaving the
armory, and now, at ease, with arms stacked, sitting, standing, talking
in groups, the Guardsmen awaited the coming of the mob.

It is not to be supposed that there had been no discussion among the
enlisted men concerning the propriety and risk of being led into action
by Lieutenant McCormack. Even after Sergeant Barriscale’s failure to
have the men demand the temporary retirement of the first lieutenant,
the subject would not down. There were those who felt, and not without
reason, that it was taking too long a chance to permit an avowed
sympathizer with the disorderly element in the ranks of labor to lead
them on such an expedition as this. Barriscale, himself, was bitter in
his continued denunciation of such a programme.

“The man should have had a sufficient sense of decency,” he declared to
a little group that surrounded him on the pavement, “to have prevented
him from taking this company out. I don’t know what he intends to do,”
he added; “but if his orders, or his refusal to give orders, show that
he intends to let this mob have its way and work its will, I, for one,
will revolt. If the first lieutenant plays traitor and the second
lieutenant’s afraid to take hold, I’ll assume command of the company
myself; I’ve got a right to under the Articles of War, and I’ll arrest
McCormack and have him punished for treason and sedition. I tell you,
boys, the honor of this company and of the whole National Guard is at
stake this morning, and I’ll stop at nothing to save it.”

And there were those who agreed with him.

In order to place his men most effectively for service, McCormack had
concentrated them on the northerly side of the plaza to the right of
the entrance gates to the shops, and just in rear of the flagstaff
which in the early morning was still bare of the colors. This position
was still further strengthened by the fact that the troops covered
the mouths of the three streets leading from the central city and
converging at that point. Only the mouth of the street leading to the
south was unguarded. This was the street up which the marchers would
come, and across this street, a block away, the police had thrown a
platoon which, it was hoped, would prevent the mob from reaching the
mills or coming into contact with the militia.

Lieutenant McCormack, having made his plans, and having given final
instructions to his officers, sauntered across the corner of the plaza
to the mouth of the main street leading into the city, and leaned
against a lamp-post at the curb. He was not only deep in thought, his
mind was in a very tumult of emotions. He knew that he had reached
“the parting of the ways”; that he could no longer serve two masters,
that he must either “hate the one and love the other,” or “hold to the
one and despise the other.” The time had come when he must either give
undivided allegiance to the flag of his country, or fling himself,
body and soul, into the movement for the merging of the flags of all
countries into the red flag of social radicalism.

The sun, well above the crest of the hill range to the east, threw long
shafts of yellow light down through the open spaces of the streets,
and flooded the plaza with a carpet of shining gold. An apple tree in
a near-by yard was a pink and white marvel of beauty and bloom. All
around him birds were rioting in their spring-time songs.

Hal had the soul of an artist, and in any other mood he would have
breathed in the glory of the morning. But its splendor fell now upon
unseeing eyes, and its music upon ears that did not hear.

Lieutenant Brownell approached him and saluted.

“I am informed,” he said, “that the custodian of the flag here is about
to hoist it on the staff.”

McCormack returned the salute.

“You will bring the company to attention,” he said, “and do honor to
the colors.”

Two men came from the Barriscale offices with the flag, and ran the
ends of the halyards through the rings. The company was brought to
“attention,” and then to “present arms,” while the colors mounted the
staff.

As the banner rose, as it gave itself to the fresh morning air, as it
rolled itself out against the strong but gentle wind, as it flashed
back its glorious colors in the splendid sunlight, something gripped
Lieutenant McCormack’s heart. Perhaps it was a spirit of patriotism
that, heretofore lying dormant, now rose from the tragic struggle
that was going on in his own soul. He remembered that his father had
served under this flag, that his father’s father had fought for it,
that hundreds of thousands of men, on battle-fields, in fever camps,
in prison pens, on the decks of sinking ships, had died that it might
wave; that millions of hearts to-day beat faster as eyes dim with
patriotic sentiment looked up at it--why? Mistakes had been made under
it indeed, political crimes had been committed in its name; graft,
greed, unholy ambitions had flourished in its shelter, while the
deserving poor by thousands had toiled and sweat in the shadow of it,
and found no rest. And yet--and yet, until that far-off day shall come
when the hearts of all men shall be purged of selfishness and sin,
what nobler flag, what symbol of a better government, more free from
tyranny, more blest with liberty, more rich with opportunity, floats
anywhere in all the world? Day by day, year by year, rising out of
turmoil and tribulation and the constant struggle for better things, to
ever higher and broader planes of life and levels of true democracy,
what other people on earth have a greater right or a richer incentive
to love the one flag that protects their homes and thrills their
hearts, than the people of the United States of America?

The colors were at the top of the staff, the halyards were fastened to
the clamps, the company was brought to an “order arms,” and again to
a rest at will, and the period of waiting was resumed. But Lieutenant
McCormack’s eyes were still fixed on the flag. Somehow, suddenly,
there was a fascination in the sight of it that he could not resist;
his country’s flag, the flag of his ancestors, the symbol of the soul
of America; America, his home. That strange grip on his heart grew
tighter, firmer, deeper--was it pain, was it sweetness, was it one of
that trio of highest and noblest sentiments that stir humanity, love of
one’s own country as distinct from every other country in the world,
that caused his eyes to fill with tears as he stood with raised head
and gazed on the “Banner of the Stars”?

He was suddenly aware that some one was standing at his side, and when
he looked down he saw that it was General Chick. The boy, too, was
staring at the colors.

“Ain’t it beautiful?” he asked.

“Chick,” was the reply, “I feel this morning that that flag is the most
beautiful thing in the world, and that every American citizen should
love it.”

“And,” added Chick, “should ought to want to be a soldier an’ fight
under it. That’s what I’ve been wanting to be; but lately I’m kind o’
discouraged.”

“Why discouraged, Chick?”

“Oh, I’m afraid I won’t never git into the Guard now. It feels as
though somethin’s gone wrong inside o’ me.”

McCormack looked down at the boy, at his gray face, his hollow eyes,
his sunken cheeks, at the evidences of physical pain with which his
countenance was marked, and he felt a sudden pity for him.

“You’re not well, Chick,” he said; “you ought not to be here.”

“I know,” was the labored reply. “But I couldn’t help comin’. I heard
about it, an’ I got up an’ come away while the old woman was asleep.”

A wan smile spread over his face at the memory of his diplomatic
escape.

“I thought, mebbe,” he continued, “I might never see the boys ag’in--in
action; and I--wanted to see ’em.”

“Chick, you must go back home. You’re too ill to stay here.”

The boy ignored the command and asked a question.

“They ain’t through tryin’ you yet, air they?”

“No, the trial will be resumed next Tuesday. Chick, you----”

“Well, Mr. ’Cormack, if I should--should jest happen, you know--to die
before then, they couldn’t git nothin’ on you, could they?”

He was leaning against a tie-post at the curb, trembling and exhausted.
He looked up anxiously and wistfully at the lieutenant as he spoke.

McCormack bent down and put his arm around the boy’s shoulder and
turned his face toward the city.

“Chick, don’t talk that way. You can’t hurt me in a thousand years so
much as I’ve hurt myself many a time in a day. Now go back home and try
to get well. We can’t do without you in the Guard.”

A man came across the plaza from the Barriscale offices, and thrust
a written message into the lieutenant’s hands. It was to the effect
that the marchers were at the outskirts of the city; that they had
sacked provision and liquor stores on their way, were drunk, riotous,
boastful and destructive, and would reach the plaza in less than ten
minutes.

Even as McCormack finished reading the message he heard in the distance
the dull roar that presaged the coming of the mob.




CHAPTER XVI


When Lieutenant McCormack, after reading the message announcing the
coming of the mob, crossed the plaza and faced his company, he found
his men already in ranks and standing at “order arms.” They also had
heard the ominous sound of approaching disorder. Already the forefront
of the procession was in sight on the street leading up from the
south. Inflamed with the liquor which they had seized in the course of
their journey, the exuberant and reckless spirit of the marchers was
showing itself. Men were singing, shouting, waving clubs, demanding
justice for their fellow-workers, and the recognition of the rule
of the proletariat. At the junction of every street and alley their
members had been swelled by the angry and resentful Industrialists of
Fairweather. The cordon of police that had attempted to block their way
was swept down as though it had been a rope of straw. Now, five hundred
strong, reckless and determined, they were bearing down on the center
of the city’s industries.

The waiting hundreds of citizens who, for the last hour, had lined the
curbs about the open place, began to withdraw. They did not care to be
caught between the clubs of the rioters and the bayonets of the militia.

The mob, filling the main street from wall to wall, entered the plaza
like a rushing stream which, confined between barriers at the side, is
powerful and resistless, but, spreading out over the broad lowland,
loses its momentum and its destructive force. It was so with the
marchers. The wide space into which they emptied themselves weakened
their physical power, but in no wise altered their purpose or their
spirit of aggressiveness. When they caught sight of the American
flag waving from the staff before their faces, and saw the silent,
khaki-clad ranks of soldiers standing at attention beneath it, they
sent up a howl of derision. These were but the visible sign and symbol
of the powers of oppression against which they fought. Therefore they
wanted the world to know that they despised and defied them.

From somewhere outside, a drayman’s cart was brought and rattled
across the pavement to the center of the plaza. A man leaped up into
it and began to harangue the crowd. Italian, German, Slavonic words
and sentences rolled from his tongue with equal fluency. His hearers
applauded him wildly.

Sergeant Barriscale could endure the situation no longer. He brought
his rifle to a “shoulder arms,” stepped one pace to the front and
saluted his commanding officer.

“Lieutenant McCormack,” he said, “do you intend to permit those fellows
to stir the rabble up to violence with incendiary speeches?”

The lieutenant acknowledged the salute and replied calmly:

“It is not our mission here to interfere with the right of free speech
or of public assembly.”

“But,” shouted Ben, “this is simply a mob. The thing will develop into
a riot. The time to stop it is now. I demand that you put this company
into action and disperse that crowd.”

Hal looked his first sergeant squarely in the eyes. He was not angry,
but there was a certain unusual note of decision in his voice as he
replied.

“I shall not permit this company,” he said, “so long as I am in
command, to oppress or harass any person acting within his rights. You
will take your post.”

“But these hoodlums are not within their rights. They----”

“You will take your post, sir!”

The look in Lieutenant McCormack’s eyes, the ring in his voice,
admonished Barriscale that the parley was at an end. He stepped back
into his place at the right of the line, and came to “order arms” with
a crash of the butt of his rifle on the pavement.

McCormack’s language had convinced him that, so far as the Guardsmen
were concerned, the rioters were to have their way and work their will.
And the same conviction was not far removed from the breasts of many of
the men in the ranks.

The voice of the orator on the dray grew louder, his words tumbled in
torrents from his lips, he was gesticulating like a man gone mad. His
hearers, dominated by his fierce eloquence, applauded him to the echo.
At the end of a fiery peroration there was a sudden movement of the
crowd. Some one thrust up a pole with a red flag waving from its tip.
Clubs were lifted into the air. From five hundred throats came a yell
of defiance. Every hate-lined face was turned toward the soldiers still
standing quietly at “order arms.” It was a critical moment. The orator
flung his hands into the air and begged his followers to restrain their
wrath until he should intercede for them with the capitalist-hired
militia. He dismounted from the dray and, for a moment, was lost in
the crowd. But, presently, with another leader at his side, he crossed
the narrow, open space that separated the ranks of turbulence from the
ranks of order and law.

At the foot of the flagstaff the two men met Lieutenant McCormack and
stopped and addressed him. He recognized them, then, for the first
time, as the two leaders whom he had met in Donatello’s shop. The
American was again the spokesman.

“May I ask,” he said, “the purpose of bringing soldiers here?”

Lieutenant McCormack, standing with folded arms, responded quietly but
firmly:

“To prevent disorder and violence.”

“There will be no disorder and no violence,” replied Kranich, “unless
an attempt is made to thwart my followers in their purpose.”

“What is their purpose?”

The question came as mildly as though it had to do with a summer shower
instead of a prospective riot.

“Our purpose,” was the response, “is to pass up the streets, the
entrances to which you have covered with your troops, and spread our
propaganda in the public places of the city, which is our right.”

“I understand. Is that your entire programme?”

The men in the ranks moved uneasily. It was apparent to them that their
commanding officer was about to accede to the demand of the leaders of
the mob.

Kranich hesitated, and studied his questioner’s face for a moment
before replying. He was debating in his mind whether he should evade
the real issue, or whether he should depend upon the friendly sympathy
and anticipated acquiescence of the first lieutenant, and disclose the
full purpose of the marchers. He made a quick decision, and chose
the latter course as likely to lead to quicker and more satisfactory
results.

“No,” he replied, “we intend to take possession of this plant before
us, in behalf of the men who have a right to work there and to receive
full compensation for their toil.”

“I see. And what is it that you wish me to do?”

Again the mild, acquiescent, deprecatory manner, with its intimation of
a truculent yielding to the will of the mob.

The faces of the Guardsmen were a study in the expression of anxious
doubt and increasing dismay. Brownell felt chills creeping down his
back. The time had come when he, too, staunchest supporter and firmest
friend of Halpert McCormack, had to keep tight grip on his faith in him
in order to prevent it from sinking out of sight.

Barriscale was in a tumult of wrath. That McCormack should even consent
to parley with the leaders of the mob was unbelievable and unendurable.
“Bullets, not words,” he said in a hoarse whisper to the men at his
left. “That’s what they want, bullets, not words!”

Kranich did not reply directly to the lieutenant’s last question. He
gesticulated slightly, assumed an oratorical manner, and said:

“The time has come for you to prove by your works your declared faith
in the righteousness of the proletarian movement.”

“What is it that you wish me to do?”

The question was repeated, perhaps a little more firmly, a little more
distinctly than before, and it now brought a definite answer.

“We wish you to withdraw your troops from the plaza. The sight of them
excites and angers my followers. If they remain here I shall not be
responsible for the consequences.”

“I understand.”

Lieutenant McCormack turned and faced his company. It was apparent that
he was about to yield to the demand of the captains of the mob and give
such orders to his company as would lead to its immediate withdrawal.
Kranich and Gabriel looked at each other and smiled with satisfaction.
The men in the ranks grew sick at heart. Brownell clutched the butt of
his pistol in sheer desperation. Barriscale snatched his rifle up from
the pavement and started once more to leave the ranks, but was checked
by the command that now issued from the lips of the first lieutenant.

“Fix bayonet!”

The first sergeant dropped back into his place. Brownell’s heart leaped
in his breast. The Guardsmen caught their breaths and wondered and were
happy.

But there was no delay in the execution of the order. The men came to
“parade rest” and drew their bayonets from their scabbards. The click
sounded sharp and ominous as the springs caught on the muzzles of the
rifle barrels. Then, with shining blades fixed, the “order arms” was
promptly resumed.

Lieutenant McCormack turned again to face the ringleaders. The smiles
had vanished from their faces, their eyes were filled with a surprise
that was not unmixed with indignation.

“In answer to your request,” said the lieutenant, “I will say that I
decline to withdraw my troops. But I demand that you, who seem to be
leaders of this crowd, take your men back at once along the street by
which they came. Otherwise I shall clear the plaza at the point of the
bayonet.”

His voice, rising as he proceeded, rang out at the last with a
clearness and precision that left no room for doubt as to the meaning
of his words.

Against all military precedent and custom the men of Company E, with
almost a single voice, gave vent to a great shout of approval. The
reaction was so great, the relief was so tremendous, that a week in
the guard-house would scarcely have been sufficient to repress this
exuberant expression of their feeling.

The faces of the leaders of the mob blazed with wrath, and their eyes
shot fire. They had been mistaken in their man. It was Gabriel who now
spoke up.

“And is it,” he cried angrily, the words tumbling from his bearded
lips, “that we are deceived? Are you also traitor? Judas? Hound? I
curse you! I defy your guns!”

His face was distorted with rage. His whole body was writhing with
ungovernable passion.

“See!” he shrieked, “I despise your capitalist flag! I spit upon it! I
destroy it!”

As he spoke he drew from his waistcoat pocket a big clasp-knife, opened
the blade, and made a lunge toward the flagstaff with the evident
purpose of slashing the halyards and dropping the flag to be trampled
on. Quick and dextrous as he was, the first lieutenant of Company E was
quicker. In a blaze of patriotic wrath he cleared the space between him
and Gabriel, and brought the butt of his pistol crashing down upon the
head of the would-be desecrator of the flag.

The knife dropped from the man’s hand and went clattering to the
pavement, and he, himself, swaying, staggering for a moment, fell,
bleeding and unconscious, at the foot of the staff he would have
despoiled.

If the cheer that had greeted McCormack’s ultimatum to the leader
of the mob had been whole-souled and exuberant, the yell that came
now from the throats of half a hundred khaki-clad enthusiasts was
vociferous and overwhelming. At last they had a soldier and a patriot
for a leader, and they wanted the world to know it.

Barriscale alone was displeased and dissatisfied.

“It was a reckless thing to do,” he shouted. “Those fellows over there
will see red now. Bayonets are no use. We’ve got to shoot into ’em or
they’ll murder us. Look at ’em!”

The rioters presented, indeed, a terrifying spectacle. Stunned, for
a moment, by the swift retribution that had fallen on their leader,
their amazement now gave way to a frenzy of rage. Incited to still
greater fury by Kranich who had precipitately fled into the midst of
his followers when he saw his companion fall, the men of the invading
host were clamoring for revenge. The red flag, temporarily lowered,
was again shaken aloft. Men with faces distorted by wrath and a desire
for vengeance were shrieking their anger, flourishing their clubs,
brandishing knives, daggers, pistols, gathering from the street
missiles of any and every kind with which to charge upon their enemy.
They could not conceive that sixty Guardsmen in khaki, with rifles and
bayonets, could check the murderous onslaught of five hundred desperate
and daring men.

Already stones and brickbats were hurtling through the air, and falling
in the midst of the troops. A stone struck Manning’s head, cut through
his hat, and sent him staggering and bleeding to the curb.

“Charge bayonet!”

McCormack’s command rang out clear and distinct above the din and
tumult of the riot. As it went down the line the rifle of every man
was thrown to the front, his left hand supporting the barrel, his
right hand grasping the stock. The points of sixty bayonets, four
paces apart, ranged in the sweeping arc of a circle, converged in the
direction of the howling and advancing mob. Barriscale alone was in
revolt.

“It’s wild!” he shouted. “We’ve got to give ’em bullets, not bayonets!
This is no pink tea! This is war! I say, load your guns, men, load!
load!”

Obeying his own command, he pulled back the bolt of his piece, withdrew
a clip from his cartridge belt, pushed it with trembling and hurried
fingers into the slot of his rifle, forced the cartridges into the
magazine, thrust the bolt home, and then looked around in amazement to
see that no one else had followed his lead.

McCormack, though his face went white with anger, still thought
it prudent to let Barriscale have his fling. The man was excited,
terrified, utterly beyond even self-control; he could harm no one but
himself.

The calmness, the deliberation, the apparent patience which the
commanding officer was exercising in the handling of his force,
appeared to give courage to the attacking mob, the front rank of which,
forced on from behind, was now within twenty paces of the line of
army steel. The jeering was hideous and the yelling terrific. Stones,
brickbats, missiles of all kinds went crashing into the silent ranks.

“Advance!”

McCormack gave the command and repeated it. It was instantly obeyed.
With measured step, bayonets pointed ahead of them at the height of
their chins, firmness in every eye, determination gripping every inch
of muscle, the men of Company E moved forward in the face of such a mad
and murderous assault as few of them ever cared to witness again.

All but Sergeant Barriscale. He was now in flat revolt. He seemed
bereft of his senses, wild with rage or fear or both.

“I’ll not advance!” he yelled. “You boys are going to your death.
They’ll murder you. I say again, load and fire!” He turned savagely
toward the commanding officer. “Fool!” he cried, “to send your men to
slaughter. I defy your orders!”

Then, indeed, the first lieutenant lost grip on his patience. He
thrust his pistol into its holster, reached out a right hand nerved
with wrath, tore Barriscale’s loaded and unbayoneted rifle from his
grasp, and tossed it to Manning sitting on the curb. With both hands he
gripped the shoulders of the first sergeant and flung him about, face
to the rear.

“Report at the armory,” he cried, “and consider yourself under arrest
till I return.”

Then he swung about and followed his men into action.

As the troops pressed on the howling and shrieking died down, and the
firing of missiles ceased. The points of sixty bayonets were within
two feet of a hundred throats grown tired with shouting. The front
rank of rioters looked into the eyes of the men behind the guns and
saw their own doom written there. They made a last wild attempt to
thrust aside the glittering steel. The effort was futile. They only
pierced and lacerated their hands and put their lives in jeopardy.
Then valor gave way to discretion. They broke and fell back, crowding,
pushing and trampling on their comrades in the rear. The line of
bayonets lengthened till it swept the plaza and forced the last man
of the riotous host into the street up which the marchers had come a
short half hour before. Panic seized upon the throng, a mad desire in
the breast of each one to protect himself, regardless of his fellows,
against what appeared to be the murderous onslaught of the pitiless
troops. There was a wild scramble, shrieks of terror, a futile effort
to escape. But it was not until vacant lots, side streets unguarded
by police, and at last the open country, had been reached that the
defeated, scattered and terrorized invaders found safe asylum and a
respite from their fears. So, crushed, humiliated and spiritless,
bleeding from many superficial wounds, singly and in groups, the
rioters found their way back to the city from which, in the early
morning, they had come.

Back, on the north side of the plaza, four persons stood or sat,
watching, with vivid interest, the vanishing mob and the backs of the
khaki-clad troops as they disappeared in the dust and distance down the
main street leading to the south.

First among them was Gabriel the anarchist, who, coming to himself,
had struggled into a sitting posture the better to nurse his wounds
to which the surgeon who had administered first aid to Manning was
now giving his attention. Manning himself, sitting on the curb, a
little weak from shock and loss of blood, lifted his feeble voice in
enthusiastic acclaim as he saw the riotous army routed from the plaza
and driven down the street. Chick, seated at Manning’s side, joined
his voice, pathetically tremulous, with the corporal’s outburst of
rejoicing; and back of them a multitude of order-loving and law-abiding
citizens shouted vociferously their delight at the victory won over the
forces of disloyalty and disruption.

Finally, Barriscale stood there, midway between the wounded rioter and
the cheering Guardsman, a powerless and pathetic figure. He looked
at the marching troops, with bayonets at the “charge,” pressing the
mob to its overthrow. He turned his eyes to the big buildings and the
spacious yards of his father’s great industrial plant, saved by the
firm and wise action of Lieutenant Halpert McCormack from pillage and
destruction. He gazed up at the swelling and rolling folds of the
“Star-Spangled Banner,” still floating, thanks to the alert patriotism
of the same bold officer, in glorious symbolism from the summit of its
staff. Finally his eyes fell on Corporal Manning and General Chick
still sitting in front of him on the curb. His face was a study. It no
longer showed any mark of excitement or anger. The emotions pictured
on it were far different; wonder, humiliation, disgust, following each
other in quick succession; finally the indication of a transforming
force back of his countenance, no less powerful and thorough than that
which this very morning had changed the tenor of the life and thought
of his comrade in arms, Halpert McCormack. He came a step nearer to
Manning.

“Dick,” he said, “I’ve been a fool.”

“I think, myself,” replied the corporal with a wan smile, “that you’ve
been rather indiscreet.”

“Indiscreet! I’ve been a consummate idiot. Look at that fellow;”
he half turned his head in the direction in which McCormack had
disappeared; “getting all the honor and glory of this thing; and
deserving it; and me--facing a court martial and the penitentiary--and
deserving it.”

He came over and sat down on the curb beside Chick, and dropped his
head into his hands.

“Him,” said Chick, gazing also with eyes filled with admiration after
the disappearing troops, “he’ll be a major-general some day.”

Barriscale started up again. “I’m under arrest,” he said; “I’ve got to
go to the armory. Who’s going?”

“I am,” replied Manning.

“Me too,” added Chick.

“Come along then, both of you.”

The corporal rose uncertainly to his feet, picked up his own rifle, and
started to pick up the one belonging to Barriscale with which McCormack
had intrusted him.

“Here,” said Chick, bravely, “give that one to me.”

The first sergeant looked down on him with pitying eyes. Yesterday he
would have despised him and thrust him aside. But to-day the boy was
so shrunken, so white and trembling, such a pathetic little figure to
undertake to carry a man’s load.

“No,” said Barriscale, “you can’t. I’ll carry ’em both, Dick, if you’ll
trust me.”

He took both rifles, put one over each shoulder, pushed a way through
the noisy and wondering crowd, and together the three started up the
main street toward the central city.




CHAPTER XVII


That was a strange group that marched, three abreast, up the main
street of Fairweather that Sunday morning of the riot. Sergeant
Barriscale, with a rifle on each shoulder; on his right Corporal
Manning, hatless, with bandaged head; and on his left, shuffling weakly
along, General Chick.

“McCormack is going to get some glory out of this day,” said Manning.

“He deserves it,” responded Barriscale, sharply.

And Chick added: “I ain’t never seen nothin’ to beat it. Wasn’t that
great?”

Then, again, for a few minutes, they walked on in silence, save as they
were met and questioned by curious and excited people hurrying toward
the plaza.

Sarah Halpert came speeding down the street in her car. When she saw
the strange trio she ordered her driver to draw up to the curb.

“Tell me all about it, Ben!” she exclaimed. “Did you get hurt, Dick?
What’s the matter with you, Chick? Where’s Hal? Is he in command of the
company?”

“Yes, to everything, Miss Halpert,” replied Ben. “Dick got smashed
on the head with a brickbat, Chick isn’t feeling very well, and I’m
disgraced. We’re all going back to the armory.”

“But Hal? What’s he doing?”

“He’s driving the rioters out of town at the point of the bayonet, Miss
Halpert. He’s covering himself with glory.”

“Splendid!” She half rose in her seat, and clapped her hands together
vigorously. Apparently she forgot all about Manning’s wound, and
Chick’s illness, and Ben’s disgrace, for she turned quickly to her
driver, and ordered him to make haste ahead.

“I want to catch up with the company,” she said. “I want to see Hal
doing it.”

And the next minute she was out of sight.

When the three men started on again Manning’s footsteps were a little
more uncertain, and Chick dragged himself a little more wearily than
before.

In the middle of the next block Barriscale became suddenly aware that
the boy was missing from his side. He looked back and saw him lying in
a heap on the walk. He dropped his rifles and went and bent over him.
Chick was white and insensible but he was breathing.

“Poor fellow!” said Manning, “the thing’s been too much for him. What’s
to be done?”

Barriscale did not reply, but, looking up, he caught sight of a
passing car. It was empty save for the driver, and he hailed it and
commandeered it for his use. When it drew up to the curb he helped to
lift Chick into it, and he and Manning got in beside him.

[Illustration: HE HELPED TO LIFT CHICK INTO THE CAR]

“Drive to the City Hospital,” he ordered, “and break the speed law if
you want to.”

When they drew up under the porte-cochère at the hospital, two
orderlies came, lifted out the still unconscious boy, carried him in,
and started with him down the corridor.

“Where are you taking him?” asked Ben.

“To the men’s ward,” was the reply. “I suppose he’s one of the rioters
you’ve picked up.”

“Rioter!” Ben gazed at the orderly so fiercely that the young fellow
almost lost his grip on the boy’s shoulders. “Rioter nothing! He’s
General Chick. He’s a friend of mine. No men’s ward for him! He’s
to have a private room, a special nurse, and the best the hospital
affords.” He turned to the superintendent who had now come up. “I wish
you’d send the house surgeon to him at once. Give him everything he
needs. As soon as I can get in touch with Dr. Norton I’ll have him come
up and look after him. Send all bills to me.”

“Very well, Mr. Barriscale. We’ll do our best for him.”

The orderlies were already wheeling Chick to the elevator to take him
up-stairs.

Barriscale turned to Manning.

“Now, Corporal,” he said, “you can take me to the guard-house.”

“No,” replied Manning, “I think I’ll let you go by yourself. Now that
I’m here I believe I’ll stay and have this wound fixed up with a
permanent dressing. Besides, I want to see Captain Murray and tell him
what happened this morning.”

“That’s right! He’ll be glad to hear. Tell him the first lieutenant
played the soldier to perfection. Tell him the boys were heroes. And
tell him”--he hesitated a moment and then blurted it out: “that he’s
got a first sergeant who’s a natural born fool, a disgrace to his
company, and a blot on the National Guard.”

Without waiting to hear the corporal’s protest he turned on his heel,
strode down the hall, entered the waiting car, and directed that he be
driven at once to the armory.

At nine o’clock that morning Company E returned from its skirmish with
the mob. A belated squad of state constabulary had arrived and taken
charge of the situation, and there was no longer any occasion for the
Guardsmen to remain on duty. They marched up the main street, sturdy,
dusty and triumphant, followed by an admiring and applauding crowd. And
there was good reason for both admiration and applause. By reason of
the patience of the Guardsmen under great provocation, and of their
prompt obedience to orders, and by reason of the coolness, judgment and
skill of their commanding officer, Fairweather had undoubtedly been
saved from a disastrous and bloody experience. The citizens knew this
and they did not hesitate to say so.

At the armory, after the first lieutenant had turned the company over
to Sergeant Bangs for dismissal, he beckoned to Barriscale who, without
rifle or equipment, was standing at the side-wall, and the disgraced
officer stepped forward and saluted.

“You are suspended,” said Lieutenant McCormack to him, “from the
performance of any military duties, until your case can be taken up by
the proper authorities. In the meantime you are relieved from arrest
and may proceed about your ordinary business.”

Sergeant Barriscale, as became a soldier, said nothing in reply. He
saluted again and retired.

On the Tuesday following the riot the court martial reconvened to
proceed with the case against Lieutenant McCormack. The Barriscales
were not present, nor were any of their witnesses. Their counsel,
however, arose and said that in view of certain developments since the
last sitting of the court his clients did not care to prosecute the
case further. It would not have mattered much if they had so cared.
The verdict of the court was a foregone conclusion. The conduct of
the defendant on the preceding Sunday morning had served as a complete
refutation of the charges against him. Without the loss of a single
life, or the destruction of any valuable property, a riotous and
bloodthirsty mob had been quelled and dispersed. It was conceded that
this was due to the admirable way in which Lieutenant McCormack had
handled the situation. Moreover, the national emblem had been protected
against a rash and violent attack, and its would-be despoiler had
been summarily dealt with as he deserved to be. This was the dramatic
episode that made the young lieutenant’s vindication sure, and capped
the climax of his popularity.

So, on the application of Brownell, the court dismissed the charges
without hearing any witnesses for the defense, and, so far as could be
discovered, the defendant himself was the only person in the community
who was dissatisfied with the outcome of the trial. He knew that if the
charges were not true in letter they were at least true in spirit, and
that his own conduct had formed a sufficient foundation for them. He
knew also that it was only by the narrowest sort of a margin that he
had escaped being an ingrate to his country and a traitor to his flag.
That he should now come off scot free, and in a blaze of glory besides,
was deeply offensive to his sense of proportion, of propriety, and of
justice. But there was nothing that he could do without the risk of
bringing on further complications and disasters, save to accept the
ruling of the court and the verdict of the community, and to shape his
life accordingly.

With the rout of the mob that Sunday morning the backbone of the
strike at the Barriscale mills, and at other industrial plants in
Fairweather, was broken. Smoke again belched forth freely from the tall
stacks, the roar and clatter of machinery fell heavily on the air,
laboring humanity swarmed once more through the ways and byways of the
shops. Workmen were no longer heckled and abused on their way to and
from their homes. Many adherents of the radical labor organizations,
finding themselves on the losing side, dropped their open affiliation
with their destructive bodies, abandoned, for the time being at least,
their anarchistic principles, and returned to work on conditions
already accepted by union labor. Not that the backbone of anarchy had
been broken in Fairweather. Far from it. There were still those who,
cowed for the time being, were sullen and woeful, and awaited only
an opportune time to exhibit openly and forcibly their resentment.
Marie Brussiloff, from her cot in the hospital, and Gabriel from his
headquarters in the near-by city, still suffering from their wounds,
were “breathing out threatenings and slaughter.” Donatello alone,
of all the group, in the columns of _The Disinherited_, was mild
and conciliatory. He appeared to be grieved rather than outraged,
disappointed rather than angered. Meeting McCormack a few days after
the riot, he exhibited no bitterness nor resentment but he told him
that in his judgment he had missed the opportunity of a lifetime to do
a splendid service for humanity.

“I feel,” was Hal’s reply, “that I am doing a far greater service for
humanity by upholding the laws of my country than I could possibly do
by letting a mob work its will.”

“But those laws,” protested Donatello; “you know by whom they were
made.”

“I know; I have gone all over that phase of the matter a thousand
times. But it’s democracy; and, so far, democracy has proved to be
the best form of government that any peoples of the earth have ever
lived under. I tell you, Donatello,” he was growing eager and emphatic
now, “when Gabriel tried to cut down my flag that morning, a sudden
reverence for the ‘Stars and Stripes’ took hold of me, and I would have
dared anything to protect them. I am just as much of a humanitarian
as I ever was. I am just as much in sympathy with the toiling masses
of the world as ever. But since that moment I have felt that my first
duty is to protect my own. I believe I am not lacking in a sense of
chivalry, but my mother and my sisters are my first concern above all
other women in the world. Just so my own country must come first in my
loyalty and devotion.”

And never, after that, could any argument or appeal shake Halpert
McCormack’s conception of patriotism.

It was four days after the riot. Captain Murray was still at the
hospital, recovering but slowly from the shock and severity of his
wounds. There was no longer any doubt that his condition was the
result of a deliberate attempt to cripple the efficiency of the local
militia company on the eve of the proposed invasion of Fairweather. His
assailants were being held in the county jail without bail to await the
result of his injuries.

In the same hospital lay also General Chick. He was desperately ill.
The powers of disease had fastened upon his crippled and weakened
body with terrible avidity. It could not be denied that his grief and
anxiety over the anticipated fate of his beloved lieutenant had not
only hastened his illness but was mainly responsible for the ferocity
of the attack. Repeated and positive assurances had not been sufficient
to free his mind of the harassing belief that he, as an unwilling
witness, was to be the chief cause of the officer’s downfall.

It was on the morning of this fourth day that Miss Anderson, the
trained nurse who was caring for Chick, went into Captain Murray’s
room, as she had been requested to do, to make her daily report
concerning the boy’s condition.

“He is no better,” she said. “Of course we do not expect that he
will be any better. But if we could only get his mind relieved as to
Lieutenant McCormack’s fate--you know that is what he worries about
mostly--I am sure he would have less temperature, and be much more
comfortable.”

Captain Murray started to raise himself on his elbow, but fell back
with a gasp of pain.

“Why!” he exclaimed, “hasn’t he heard yet? Doesn’t he know about
McCormack?”

“He knows nothing new about him.”

“Well, you tell him that yesterday the court martial handed down
a decree dismissing the charges. Tell him that McCormack has been
acquitted; that he is free. Do you understand? Tell him that the
court-martial is all over, and that McCormack is free; absolutely free!”

When the nurse came in to make her afternoon report she had scarcely
crossed the door-sill before Captain Murray called out to her:

“Did you tell him, Miss Anderson?”

“Yes, I told him.”

“Did he understand? What did he say?”

“I think he understood. I never before saw such a rapturous look on a
human face. He--he lay very quiet for--a while. Then he said----”

Hardened as she was to pathetic sights and sounds, the lips of the
tender-hearted nurse trembled, her voice failed her, and, with tears
rolling down her cheeks, she turned and fled from the captain’s room.

But McCormack had still to deal with the case of Barriscale. He knew
that it was his duty to file charges with Captain Murray against the
first sergeant, and he knew what those charges should be. “Behaving
himself with disrespect toward his commanding officer, in violation of
the 20th Article of War.” “Disobeying a lawful command of his superior
officer, in violation of the 21st Article of War.” It was simple
enough; his duty was plain. Yet, day after day went by and he took no
action. He, himself, had been too near the verge of disloyalty and
insubordination to make the task of preparing and presenting charges
against a comrade an easy one.

But, when Captain Murray’s improvement made it no longer possible
to put forth the serious nature of his illness as a pretext for not
disturbing him, McCormack went down to the hospital one day, determined
to take the matter up and have an end of it.

“I hope,” said the captain, “that you’ve brought with you the charges
against Barriscale. It’s high time something was done.”

“No,” was the reply. “I haven’t drawn any charges. I’ve decided not to
present any.”

In his surprise Captain Murray thrust himself up on his elbow, but he
only winced now at the pain it gave him.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “Don’t you know that the man is guilty?”

“Perhaps he is. But I believe he was more than half justified in what
he did. As I think of it now, my only wonder is that any man in the
company had any confidence in me, or was willing to follow me or obey
my orders.”

The captain looked his first lieutenant in the eyes and was silent.
Evidently he was impressed with what McCormack had said. For when he
spoke again his manner was mild and he exhibited little impatience.

“But, if you don’t court-martial him what will you do with him?” he
asked. “It’ll never do to let such a breach of discipline go unnoticed.”

“I propose to turn him over to you for admonition under the Army
Regulations.”

“And what shall I do with him?”

“The most you could do in that case; the most you could do if you were
sitting as a summary court, would be to send him back to the ranks.”

“Then I’ll send him back to the ranks.”

“In my judgment that would be too severe a punishment.”

Up to this moment, save at the beginning of the conversation, Captain
Murray had repressed his impatience with admirable self-control. But
now it again got the better of him.

“Too severe!” he exclaimed. “Why, man! do you know that such an offense
as his, in the regular army, in time of war, would be punishable with
death?”

“I know. But we’re not in the regular army, and we’re not at war.”

“If I had my way about it,” was the captain’s reply, “we would be both
in the federal service and at war. That slaughter on the other side
will never stop until this nation goes in and stops it. The sooner we
get about it the better.”

“I agree with you. But, as to Ben, I hope you will be lenient.”

“And I promise you that I will punish him to the full extent of my
authority.”

The captain was resolute, so Hal had to let it go that way.

When he left the officer’s room he went up to the next floor to see
Chick. The boy gazed at him with unrecognizing eyes. Whether he saw him
at all or not is quite uncertain. But his shriveled and colorless lips
were incessantly moving.

“He babbles night and day,” said Miss Anderson, “mostly about Company E
and his duties at the armory. He boasts that he is now a regular member
of the company. He says you got him in. You are his hero, Lieutenant
McCormack. He never tired of talking about you when his mind was
clear. Even now yours is the name most frequently on his lips.”

“Poor fellow!” replied Hal. “I am glad he has the satisfaction of
believing that he has been admitted to membership in the company. It
was almost his lifelong ambition to be a Guardsman.”

“Well, he is one now to all intents and purposes. He says he must make
haste to get well in order that he may return to his duties. His great
fear and concern seem to be that the soldiers will go across the sea to
fight, and that on account of his illness he will be left behind. If
he were to believe that such a thing had happened it would absolutely
break his heart.”

Hal looked down on the gray face and unseeing eyes.

“It will never happen,” he said.

When he heard the sound of his own name issue feebly from the murmuring
lips he bent his head to listen.

“Yes, he got me in,” said the boy. “These are my khakis. That’s my gun.
I drill; I march--I’ll go with ’em across the sea--an’ fight. Yes,
that’s my flag; the ‘red, white an’ blue.’” He paused for a moment and
then continued: “Was that taps? Well, I’m ready--I’m tired.”

He turned his head on the pillow as if to go to rest. Hal took the
unresponsive hand and pressed it gently, gazed, for a moment, with wet
eyes, into the pinched, pathetic face, and came away.




CHAPTER XVIII


Three days after Lieutenant McCormack’s interview with Captain Murray,
First Sergeant Barriscale, in pursuance of notice duly received,
presented himself before his commanding officer, in his room at the
hospital, for admonition and punishment in accordance with the Army
Regulations. There was no bravado in his bearing, no attempt at bluster
or denial.

“I suppose I may as well plead guilty to the charges,” he said, “and
take what’s coming to me.”

Captain Murray looked up at him in astonishment. What had become of the
boastful, self-satisfied scion of a wealthy family as he had known him
scarcely three weeks before? He had expected to deal with a stubborn,
defiant, aggressive offender; but here came a modest, pliant, soldierly
young fellow, freely acknowledging his offense, and willing to pay
the penalty. It was a strange circumstance. It changed materially the
aspect of affairs. It set the captain to thinking.

“But there are no charges,” he said at last. “McCormack refused to file
any.”

“Refused--to file any?”

Barriscale looked up at him with incredulous eyes. He could not
understand it. Why had not McCormack taken advantage of so rich an
opportunity, so just an occasion, to even up a score that had been
running lopsided for years?

“Yes. He doesn’t want you court-martialed. I’m not particularly eager
for it myself. We’ve had enough of court-martialing in Company E for
the present. So I decided to call you before me instead for admonition
and punishment under the Army Regulations.”

“But, Captain, mine was a court-martial offense, not a case for a
summary court. I’m not asking for any clemency. I’m guilty, and I’m
ready to take my medicine.”

“And I mean to give it to you. But I don’t quite understand your
attitude. I supposed you’d put up a fight. What’s come over you?”

“I don’t know, Captain Murray. I experienced a sort of change of heart
that Sunday morning. I looked around me, and realized what McCormack
had done; that our plant was saved, that the flag was still flying,
that the mob had been dispersed, and that through it all I had been
neither a patriot, a soldier nor a gentleman; but simply an unmitigated
fool. I think that was the end of one phase of my life, and the
beginning of another. Now I want to start right, and starting right
means adequate punishment for misdeeds.”

“I see. That’s splendid! That’s the right way to look at it. I
congratulate you!” The captain’s hand moved across the counterpane,
found Ben’s, grasped it and held fast to it. “But there’ll be no
court-martial. That’s settled. And as for the punishment, I had thought
to reduce you to the ranks. It’s the most I could do, anyway. But, in
your present state of mind, I--I think I’d rather have you on the right
of the line. So I’ll just order you back to your post.”

Barriscale sprang to his feet, his cheeks glowing and his eyes wide
with apprehension. Again it was the old fire of impetuosity that broke
out in him.

“I protest!” he exclaimed. “That wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be fair
to McCormack, nor just to the boys in the company. If I were to obey
such an order I’d do it at the loss of every vestige of self-respect.
Captain, don’t do that, I beg of you! At least reduce me to the ranks.”

Captain Murray, looking searchingly into his first sergeant’s face, saw
that he was both sincere and determined.

“Very well,” he said; “back to the ranks you go.”

As Barriscale turned to leave the captain’s room Miss Anderson entered
it. Her eyes were solemn but tearless, as befits the eyes of those who
have just witnessed the passing of a soul.

“General Chick,” she said, “is dead.”

He had died in the full belief that the great ambition of his life had
been fulfilled, that he was a soldier of the Guard, and that, in the
embarkation for the great war, he had not been left behind. And so his
death came joyfully. He had, indeed, gone “across the sea,” not to
fight under any earthly flag, but to march and sing forever under the
stainless banner of the Lord of Hosts.

In August following the annual July encampment the regiment to which
Company E belonged was mobilized at Mount Gretna, along with other
National Guard units, was mustered into the federal service, and, in
October, was sent to the Mexican border. It went into camp at Camp
Stewart, seven miles north of El Paso, and remained there during the
entire winter. The regiment saw no active service; it was not even
called upon to patrol the border.

Not that the men did not have their experiences, their pleasures
and their hardships. But, what with the daily drill, the camp
entertainments, the trips to the city, and the letters and parcels from
home, life on the sand plains of the Rio Grande valley did not become
especially monotonous. The troops would have preferred to march and
fight; they would have been delighted to be with Pershing’s regulars
in the heart of Mexico, but there was little murmuring and there were
few complaints. They were soldiers in the service of the federal
government; they were being well cared for, it was their business to
obey orders and be content.

This was especially true of the men of Company E. They spent no time
nor wasted any breath in useless murmuring. They performed their duties
as soldiers with skill and alacrity. Theirs became the crack company
in the regiment. Lieutenant McCormack, their commander, had not only
their respect but their affection. From the day of the riot his place
in their minds and hearts was fixed and unalterable. As for Barriscale,
the old prejudice against him had worn gradually away until he had
become in fact as well as in theory a comrade. As a private in the
ranks he performed every duty with painstaking care and fidelity. The
old sense of self-importance had disappeared; he was simply Private
Barriscale, in the service of his country, no better nor worse than
the men who surrounded him. As Brownell put it one day, he had become
“really human.”

The breach between him and McCormack had, apparently, not yet been
fully closed. It is certain that there was no familiar companionship
between them. Barriscale had made formal apology to the first
lieutenant, his apology had been accepted and his offense kindly
minimized, and there the matter had ended. They were soldiers and
gentlemen in their relations with each other, that was all. Whether
a bit of the old resentment still dwelt in the heart of each of them,
or whether it was a natural diffidence and hesitancy that prevented
them from approaching one another on what was of necessity a delicate
subject, perhaps neither of them could have told.

But an incident happened one day that in its consequences brought about
a change in the relations between the two men.

Plodding back from the city of El Paso to camp in the afternoon of a
December day, Barriscale was caught in one of the violent sandstorms
characteristic of that region. Swept, buffeted, blinded, drenched with
the terrific downpour of rain, he reached the camp battered, breathless
and exhausted. After three days of partial disability he developed a
full case of pneumonia. The disease was not of the most severe type,
however, and at no time was he considered to be desperately or even
critically ill.

But Lieutenant McCormack, the company commander, deemed it advisable to
telegraph to Barriscale’s father the fact of his son’s illness.

This he did on the third day after the nature of the disease had become
definitely established.

The telegram was an assuring one, but it brought Benjamin Barriscale,
Sr., to Camp Stewart within thirty-six hours after its receipt. He
found his son much improved, the crisis safely passed, and the young
man on the sure road to recovery. He remained with him three days.

It was on the afternoon of the second day, as he was sitting at the
side of Ben’s cot which had been partitioned off by screens from the
rest of the hospital ward, that the subject of their relations with
Lieutenant Halpert McCormack came up.

“I’ve nothing against him now,” said Ben. “I’ve seen him day in and day
out for months, and in my opinion he’s a soldier and a gentleman.”

The elder Barriscale sat for a moment in silence.

“I may have been rather harsh in my judgment of him before the riot,”
he said at last. “But I still think that his opinions and conduct
justify my attitude toward him up to that time.”

“That may be very true, father; but you’ll have to admit that he
handled the situation that day in a masterly manner.”

“Yes, I’ll admit that.”

“And that his patience and judgment and firmness not only saved our
property from destruction, but prevented much bloodshed and probably a
city-wide disaster.”

“I guess that’s true too.”

“Then why haven’t we got the moral courage to acknowledge it, and
tell him so, and put an end to this awkward restraint, and this
uncomfortable attitude on the part of all of us?”

Again the elder man hesitated.

“He may still be a radical,” he replied; “and I don’t care to humble
myself before a person of that type. When this ultra-socialist germ
once finds lodgment in a young man’s mind, it’s no easy task to
displace it.”

“Well, I guess he’s got rid of it all right now.” The invalid raised
himself on his elbow and added earnestly: “You know I believe
McCormack’s one ambition to-day is to serve his country faithfully as a
soldier.”

“That’s a laudable ambition, I’m sure.”

It was at this juncture that Lieutenant McCormack, having come to the
hospital to visit the two or three of his men who were invalids there,
was ushered by a nurse into the little apartment screened off for
Barriscale. When he saw that the sick man had company he would have
withdrawn, but Ben called to him.

“Come in,” he said. “Father’s here, and he wants to see you.”

So McCormack came in; not wholly at ease, to be sure, but with the
dignified and courteous bearing of a soldier. The elder Barriscale
reached out a friendly hand to him and he took it, and then passed
around to the other side of the cot.

“Ben is right,” said the elder man. “I did want to see you, and I
should not have left camp without having done so. I want to thank you
for having notified me of my son’s illness.”

“That is a duty,” replied the lieutenant, “which we owe to the parents
of our men when they are seriously ill. And I think your son has been
seriously, though not dangerously, ill.”

“Yes; I have talked with the surgeon, who thinks his escape from
something far worse than this was extremely fortunate.”

“And I am extremely glad,” added the lieutenant, “that he is so well on
the road to recovery, and will soon be back with us. We all appreciate
him and need him. He is an ideal soldier.”

The words came unconsciously, almost impetuously. If McCormack had
stopped to consider he might not have uttered them. Still he made no
attempt to modify them, for he knew that they were true.

But the heart of the father had been touched; and if any feeling of
prejudice or resentment against his son’s one time rival had remained
with him prior to his journey south, it vanished in this moment. Blunt
and direct in meeting opposition to his will, he was equally blunt
and direct in acknowledging his faults or mistakes, or expressing his
gratitude or approval.

“I want to thank you, sir,” he said, “for your generosity. Your
conduct toward my son since the day of the riot has been more than
magnanimous.”

“You are very kind to think so and to say so,” replied the lieutenant
modestly.

“And I want to say further,” went on the manufacturer, “that while
there was a time when I doubted your true Americanism, that time
has passed. Your conduct as an officer has proved your worth as a
patriot. You have lived up to the best traditions of the American
soldier. I admire your judgment, sir, and your patience and skill, and
broad-mindedness, and----”

What more Benjamin Barriscale, Sr., would have said had not a peculiar
choking sensation checked his speech, cannot be definitely known. It is
certain that his eyes were moist and his lips trembled. His enthusiasm
and his surroundings had betrayed him into an emotion such as he had
not experienced in years. And as for his son, two big tears escaping
from his eyes were coursing down his cheeks unheeded and undisturbed.

Lieutenant Halpert McCormack did not quite know what to say. He began
to stumble over some awkward expression of appreciation and thanks, but
the elder Barriscale cut him short.

“There,” he said, “the incident is closed. I want to go up and see the
boys of your company, and take home any messages they want to send. And
if there’s anything they need while they’re down here, they shall have
it if it’s in my power to get it to them.”

When Hal rose to go Ben reached out his hand to him.

“There’s not much left,” he said, “for me to say, except to assure you,
with all the heart and energy I’ve got, that my father’s sentiments are
mine.”

And in that moment the old breach between them was closed forever.

On the day that Private Ben Barriscale left the hospital, a committee
representing the enlisted men of Company E called on First Lieutenant
McCormack at company headquarters. There were three sergeants and two
corporals. The lieutenant received them graciously but wonderingly,
and waited for them to declare their errand. Manning, although only a
corporal, appeared to be the spokesman of the committee. He saluted
gravely and drew from his pocket a formidable looking paper.

“Lieutenant McCormack,” he said, “we are not sure whether or not we are
violating military rules and customs in appearing before you to make a
certain request, but we feel that our earnestness and good faith will,
in any event, be our sufficient excuse. I hand you a petition, signed
by every enlisted man in Company E but one, and as the matter concerns
him he was not asked to sign it.”

He handed the paper to McCormack, returned to his place and stood at
attention.

The company commander, with not a little misgiving, unfolded the paper
and began to read it. It ran as follows:

    “_To First Lieutenant Halpert McCormack, Commanding Company E_:

    “The undersigned, including the entire roster of your Company
    with the exception of one name, respectfully pray you to fill
    the vacancy now existing in the office of First Sergeant,
    by reappointing thereto Private Benjamin Barriscale who has
    heretofore filled the position with marked ability.

    “_Signed_,”

McCormack ran his eyes down the long list of names, then folded the
paper and looked into the faces of his visitors.

“Are you aware,” he said, “that when Private Barriscale was returned to
the ranks he lost his grading, and, in accordance with military usage,
should begin again at the lowest round of the ladder to win promotions?”

“We are aware of that,” was Manning’s reply; “but we feel that the
circumstances surrounding Barriscale’s case warrant the waiving of this
custom. He has taken his punishment like a soldier. He has made himself
agreeable and helpful to his comrades. He is absolutely faithful in the
performance of every duty. It seems to us that he has paid in full the
penalty for his old offense.”

The company commander did not seem to be greatly interested in this
plea, but he turned to Acting First Sergeant Bangs, who stood at the
left of the group.

“Are you willing,” he asked, “to waive such right of appointment to the
first sergeantcy, as you may have by reason of your present position?”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” was the prompt and earnest reply; “I am not only
willing, but glad to do it. In my judgment Private Barriscale has
easily won the honor which we are asking for him.”

Still the company commander did not seem to be deeply impressed with
the sergeant’s plea.

He asked, of no member of the committee in particular:

“Does Barriscale know anything about this?”

Manning and Boyle replied with one accord, in the same words:

“Not a word!” And Manning added: “We have not taken him into our
confidence for fear he might disapprove and put a stop to it.”

Again Lieutenant McCormack looked into the faces of his visitors for a
moment without speaking. Then he said quietly:

“I do not think that, under the circumstances, you have been guilty of
any breach of military etiquette. I will accept your petition, consider
it, and consult with my lieutenants concerning it.”

They saluted him, he returned the salute, and then they turned on their
heels and left the commander’s tent.

Three days later orders were posted announcing the appointment of
Private Benjamin Barriscale to the office of First Sergeant.

Late in March Company E came home from the border.

As the boys marched up from the station, stalwart, bronzed, with
ringing steps and beaming faces, the citizenry of Fairweather lined
the curbs and hung from the windows to greet and acclaim them. As they
went by, Sarah Halpert, standing in her automobile, surrounded by the
McCormack family, waved her handkerchief, and shouted her enthusiastic
welcome. She had reason to be both proud and happy. For her old wish
had been fulfilled; Halpert McCormack was captain of Company E, and
Benjamin Barriscale was its first lieutenant. Captain Murray had
resigned his commission, and the new appointments had come down through
headquarters three days before the entrainment of the troops for home.

“Haven’t I told you times without number,” exclaimed Sarah Halpert,
“that the boy had the stuff in him? All that was needed to bring it
out was a Sabbath morning, and a howling mob, and a threat against Old
Glory.”

       *       *       *       *       *

 Transcriber’s Notes:

 --Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).

 --Printer's, punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently
   corrected.

 --Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.

 --Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.

 --Except for the frontispiece, illustrations have been moved to
   follow the text that they illustrate.