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* * * * *
[Illustration: [See p. 252]
THE OPENING OF THE BATTLE AT WOUNDED KNEE]
* * * * *
TO THE FRONT
A SEQUEL TO
CADET DAYS
BY
GENERAL CHARLES KING
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
MCMVIII
* * * * *
Copyright, 1908, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
_All rights reserved._
Published March, 1908.
* * * * *
TO
THREE BOYS, CADETS YET TO BE
TO "COPE" AND THE MAJOR
* * * * *
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
PRELUDE 1
I. FROM THE GRAY TO THE BLUE 11
II. THE FIRST CALL 30
III. AWAY TO THE WEST 39
IV. "I'M READY NOW" 49
V. FIRST NIGHT ON THE RANGE 61
VI. FIRST AID TO THE WOUNDED 76
VII. A BALKED ARREST 89
VIII. A RACE TO THE FORT 102
IX. BAD NEWS FROM THE MINES 114
X. FIRST SHOTS OF THE SUMMER 128
XI. A NIGHT ON GUARD 142
XII. THE MAN OF THE SIEGE 156
XIII. AWAY ON THE WARPATH 168
XIV. A SCOUT FOR THE SIOUX 180
XV. FIRST SIGHT OF THE FOE 198
XVI. PROOF POSITIVE OF GUILT 213
XVII. THE WAR-DANCE AND THE CHARGE 224
XVIII. BATTLE AND VICTORY 239
ILLUSTRATIONS
THE OPENING OF THE BATTLE AT WOUNDED KNEE _Frontispiece_
CADETS AT DRILL, WEST POINT _Facing p._ 14
"BIG BEN WAS BUSY WITH HIS OIL-CAN" " 84
"NOT A WHIFF OF THE DRAUGHT COULD BE WASTED" " 102
SILVER SHIELD " 128
"'STRAIGHT THROUGH THE HERD, MEN. CH-A-A-A-RGE!'" " 236
UNITED STATES CAVALRY IN WINTER RIG " 242
"UP WENT TWO LITTLE PUFFS OF EARTH" " 248
TO THE FRONT
TO THE FRONT
PRELUDE
It was graduation day at West Point, and there had been a remarkable
scene at the morning ceremonies. In the presence of the Board of
Visitors, the full-uniformed officers of the academic and military
staff, the august professors and their many assistants, scores of
daintily dressed women and dozens of sober-garbed civilians, the
assembled Corps of Cadets, in their gray and white, had risen as one
man and cheered to the echo a soldierly young fellow, their "first
captain," as he received his diploma and then turned to rejoin them. It
was an unusual incident. Every man preceding had been applauded, some
of them vehemently. Every man after him, and they were many, received
his meed of greeting and congratulation, but the portion accorded Cadet
Captain "Geordie" Graham, like that of Little Benjamin, exceeded all
others, and a prominent banker and business man, visiting the Point for
the first time, was moved to inquire why.
"I think," said the officer addressed, a man of his own age, though his
spare form and smooth-shaven cheek and chin made him look ten years
younger--"I think it is that Graham has been tried in all manner of
ways and has proved equal to every occasion. They say he's sheer grit."
A keen and close observer was the banker--"a student of men," he called
himself. He had been tried in many a way and proved equal to every
occasion. He had risen from the ranks to the summit. He, too, they said
in Chicago, was "sheer grit." Moreover, they did not say he had "made
his pile out of others' losings"; but, like most men who have had to
work hard to win it, until it began to come so fast that it made
itself, John Bonner judged men very much by their power to earn money.
Money was his standard, his measure of success.
And this, perhaps, was why John Bonner could never understand his
brother-in-law, the colonel, a most distinguished soldier, a modest and
most enviable man.
Twenty-five years had Bonner known that now gray-haired, gray-mustached
veteran. Twenty-five years had he liked him, admired him, and much of
late had he sought to know him, but Hazzard was a man he could not
fathom.
"Fifteen years ago," said he to a fellow-magnate, "I told that man if
he'd quit soldiering, and bring Carrie and the children to Chicago, I'd
guarantee him an income ten times the regular pay he's getting; and he
smiled, thanked me, and said he was quite content--content, sir, on two
thousand a year, and so, too, was Sis. Now, think of that!"
And Bonner was bubbling over with the same idea to-day, yet beginning
to see light. Two prominent senators, men of world-wide renown, held
Hazzard long in close conference, and were merely civil to him, the
magnate, who, as he said, "could buy the three of 'em three times
over." A general whose name was but second to that of Grant seized his
brother-in-law by both hands, and seemed delighted to greet him, yet
had barely a word for "his millions," him to whom the Board of Trade
bowed humbly at home. A great war secretary, whom they had recently
dined at the Grand Pacific and whose dictum as to the purchase of
supplies meant much to Chicago, but vaguely remembered and absently
greeted the man of wealth, yet beamed with pleasure at sight of his
small-salaried soldier companion. The secretary drew Hazzard off to one
side, in fact, and left the man of stocks and the stock-yards standing.
That evening, after the simple home dinner, with Carrie and the young
people and the colonel smiling about the board, Bonner's vexation of
spirit found vent. Duties drew the soldier away, and the banker was
left with his sister.
"What is your pay _now_, Carrie?" he abruptly asked.
"A row of threes, John--$333.33 a month," was the amused answer.
"And Hazzard's been through two wars, Heaven knows how many campaigns
and vicissitudes, and been serving the United States, night and day,
some thirty years, and that's all he has to show for it, every cent of
which has to go for living expenses--rearing, feeding, clothing, and
educating these youngsters."
"Pretty nearly. We've a little laid by for Jack's college, and the
President gives Lou his cadetship, you know, but"--and here the
blithe-faced little woman looked archly at "Uncle John," though her
look was one that said, "I mean every word of this"--"we don't think
that's all there is to it, by any manner of means. Think of his war
record! Isn't that a proud thing to leave to our boys? See how he is
regarded by the best men in our country, from the President down! He is
not yet an old man, but he has 'all that should accompany old
age--love, honor, obedience, troops of friends'--and, honestly, John,
with health and competence and _us_, what more _should_ he want?"
"Well," said Bonner, tenaciously, "I could have put him where he would
have been worth three hundred thousand by this time."
"And it wouldn't have tempted him; and I'd rather see him as he is."
"Well, I'm blessed if I can understand it," said Bonner. Then callers
put a stop to the chat. Then the colonel himself came home to his cosey
quarters, and silence had settled down over the beautiful plain. The
lights were dimmed in the barracks; the sentries paced their measured
rounds; from the verandas of the hotel came the ripple of murmured
words and soft laughter, and a tinkle of banjo and guitar. At the gate
the colonel exchanged good-night greetings with a happy-faced, motherly
looking woman whom Bonner had noticed overwhelmed with pride and
emotion during the ceremonies in the morning. He did not at first
recognize the tall, erect young fellow on whose arm she proudly leaned
as she walked home through the shifting moonlight.
"That was young Graham, in whom you were so interested this morning,"
said Hazzard, briefly.
"_Was_ it? Oh, I thought he'd gone with the graduates."
"Only down to the city to say good-bye. He came back to his mother by
late train. I fancy she's more to him than a lot of fun with the boys."
"See here, Hazzard," observed Bonner, solemnly, "I've been looking into
things here nigh onto a week. It's fine! It's all right for a soldier
school! But, now take that young chap for a sample. What on earth does
he know outside of drill and mathematics and what you call discipline?
What could he do in case we cut off all this--this foolishness--and
came down to business? I'd be willing to bet a sweet sum that, take him
out of the army, turn him loose in the streets, and he'd starve, by
gad! before he could ever earn enough to pay for a quick lunch."
"I think you'd lose," was the quiet answer.
"Well, I'd just like to try it. Pit him and his kind against our
keen-witted, sharp, aggressive young _bus_iness men--men with
_bus_iness heads, _bus_iness experience"--Bonner's emphasis on the
first syllable was reinforced by a bang of the fist on the arm of his
chair--"and, and, by gad! they'd be skinned alive--skinned out of their
last cent, sir."
"That," said the colonel, dryly, "is not improbable. They are trained
as soldiers, not as sharpers. But, all the same, in spite, if you
please, of their soldier training, I fancy most of these lads that quit
us to-day, if brought face to face with sudden emergency,
responsibility, something calling for courage, coolness,
judgment--above all, for action--would hold their own, and I'd back
them even in competition with your aggressive young friends in business
life."
"Why, they're taught to deal only with soldiers--with machines--not
men," argued Bonner.
"Well, such as they have handled men not soldiers more than once, in
your own city, Bonner, and to your vast benefit. They'll come to it
again some day. As for that young man, I picked him a year ago from his
whole class for the place that calls for the most judgment, tact, quiet
force, capacity to command--the 'first captaincy'--and never did I see
it better filled."
"Oh, granted as to that! But strip off the uniform, sword, and
authority; set him among the men _we_ have to deal with--what could he
do with a railway strike? How could he handle maddened mill operatives,
laborers, switchmen, miners? Think of that, Hazzard! That isn't
fighting Indians, with a regiment at your back. You mark what I say!"
"Well, mobs, miners, or Indians, our young officers have had to meet
all kinds at times," said the colonel; "and if ever Graham is up
against them, Bonner, I'm thinking you'll hear of it."
And, oddly enough, before he was one month older, sitting in his office
in Chicago, Bonner was hearing it with a vengeance. There was the
mischief to pay in at least one of his mines. Oddly enough, before he
was one year older, George Montrose Graham, graduated cadet, was "up
against them," all three--mobs, miners, and Indians. How he met them
and how he merited the colonel's confidence let them judge who read.
CHAPTER I
FROM THE GRAY TO THE BLUE
It was just after sunset of one of the longest days of the loveliest of
our summer months. The roar of the evening gun had gone re-echoing
through the Highlands of the Hudson. The great garrison flag was still
slowly fluttering earthward, veiled partially from the view of the
throng of spectators by the snowy cloud of sulphur smoke drifting
lazily away upon the wing of the breeze. Afar over beyond the barren
level of the cavalry plain the gilded hands of the tower-clock on "the
old Academic" were blended into one in proclaiming to all whom it might
concern that it was five minutes past the half-hour 'twixt seven and
eight, and there were girls in every group, and many a young fellow in
the rigid line of gray and white before them, resentful of the fact
that dress parade was wofully late and long, with tattoo and taps only
two hours or so away. The season for the regular summer "hops" had not
yet begun, for this was away back in the eighties, when many another
old West Point fashion still prevailed; but there was to be an informal
dance in the dining-room of the hotel, and it couldn't come off until
after supper, and supper had to be served to some people who were
"pokey" enough to care to come by late boat, or later train, and were
more eager to see the cadets on parade than to seek Mine Host Craney's
once bountiful table.
What made it more exasperating was that rumors were afloat to the
effect that the adjutant had long and important orders to publish, and
this would still further prolong the parade. Cadet Private Frazier,
First Class, one of the best dancers in the battalion, was heard to
mutter to his next-door neighbor in the front rank of the color
company: "It'll be nine o'clock before we get things going at the
hotel, and we've got to quit at nine-thirty. _Con_found the orders!"
And yet, peering from under the visor of his shako, Mr. Frazier could
see without disturbing the requisite pose of his head, "up and straight
to the front, chin drawn in," that over near the south end of the row
of gayly attired visitors, seated or standing at the edge of the camp
parade-ground, there was one group, at least, to whom, as Frazier knew,
the orders meant much more than the dance. There, switching the short
grass with his stocky cane, stood their grim senior surgeon, Doctor, or
Major, Graham. There, close beside him and leaning on the arm of a
slender but athletic, sun-tanned young fellow in trim civilian dress,
stood the doctor's devoted wife. With them was a curly-headed youth,
perhaps seventeen years of age, restless, eager, and impatient for the
promised news. Making his way eagerly but gently through the dense
throng of onlookers, a bronze-faced, keen-eyed, powerfully built
officer in the uniform of the cavalry came up at the moment and joined
them. "Have you heard anything yet?" he murmured to Mrs. Graham, whose
kind and gentle eyes seemed to light at sound of his voice.
"Not yet," she answered, with a shake of the head. "All we learned just
a few minutes ago was that the order was here and would be published on
parade. The commandant returned only just in time."
"And there's been no telegram--no word from outside?"
"Not a thing, Mr. McCrea. It just so happened."
"Well, if that isn't odd! To begin with, it's most unusual to get out
the order so early. They must be in a hurry to assign the graduates
this year. Pops, old boy, if you don't get our regiment, I'll say the
secretary of war is deaf to the wishes of every officer and most of the
men. We told him when he came out to look over Fort Reynolds, and
incidentally look into the mines--but that was last year--Oh, bother,
Williams," he suddenly broke off, "what do you want to lose precious
time for, putting 'em through the manual?"
This sudden outbreak was levelled at the unconscious officer
commanding the parade (the "officer in charge," as he was termed), Mr.
Williams having replied, "Take your post, sir," to the adjutant's
stately salute in presenting the statuesque line. Whereupon the
adjutant "recovered" sword, strode briskly up, passed beyond the plumed
commander, and took his station to his left and rear. With much
deliberation of manner, Mr. Williams drew sabre and easily gave the
various orders for the showy manual of arms, the white-gloved hands
moving like clockwork in response to his command until, with
simultaneous thud, the battalion resumed the "order," certain
spectators with difficulty repressing the impulse to applaud.
[Illustration: CADETS AT DRILL, WEST POINT]
Then back to the centre stalked the young adjutant, Mrs. Graham
unconsciously drawing unflattering comparison between the present
incumbent, soldierly though he seemed, and her own boy's associate and
friend, Claude Benton, adjutant of the class graduated barely a
fortnight earlier, "her own boy," perhaps the most honored among them.
She was clinging to his arm now, her pride and joy through all his
years of sturdy boyhood and manly youth. She knew well that the hope
and longing of his heart was to be assigned to the cavalry regiment of
which Lieutenant McCrea was quartermaster, the regiment once stationed
at old Fort Reynolds, in the Rockies, when Dr. Graham was there as post
surgeon and Geordie was preparing for West Point. Indeed, Mr. McCrea
had "coached" her son in mathematics, and had been most helpful in
securing the appointment. And now here was the quartermaster on leave
of absence, the first he had had in years, spending several weeks of
his three months' rest at the scene of his own soldier school-days.
But it was "Bud," her younger son, who had come rushing down to the
surgeon's quarters only a few minutes before parade with the
all-important news. "Mither!--Geordie!" he cried, "Captain Cross says
the assignment order's come and will be published at parade. Hurry up!"
Dr. Graham could hardly believe it. As McCrea said, the War Department
seldom issued the order before mid-July. "Mac" even hoped to be in
Washington in time to say a word to the adjutant-general in Geordie's
behalf. It was known that many would be assigned to the artillery, to
which Cadet Graham had been recommended by the Academic Board. But all
his boyhood had been spent on the frontier; his earliest recollections
were of the adobe barracks and sun-dried, sun-cracked, sun-scorched
parade of old Camp Sandy in Arizona. He had learned to ride an Indian
pony in Wyoming before he was eight; he had learned to shoot in Montana
before he was twelve; and he had ridden, hunted, fished, and shot all
over the wide West before the happy days that sent him to the great
cadet school of the nation. And now that he was graduated, with all his
heart and hope and ambition he prayed that he might be commissioned in
a cavalry regiment, if possible in McCrea's. Give him _that_, he said,
and he would ask no favor from any man.
How his heart was beating as he watched the adjutant, whom he himself
had schooled and drilled and almost made, for Graham had been famous in
his cadet days as a most successful squad instructor, a model first
sergeant, and a great "first captain." How odd it seemed that he, a
graduate, and that all these people, officers, and children, should now
be hanging on the words that might fall from the younger soldier's
lips! A telegram from Washington had told a veteran general visiting at
the Point that his son had been assigned to the artillery, that the
order would doubtless be published that evening. But it so happened
that not until just before parade did the commandant return from a long
ride, and so had no time to read it through. He had simply handed it,
with others, to the silent young soldier, who had stood in full uniform
full five minutes awaiting his coming. "Better order 'parade rest' part
of time. It's a long read," he briefly said, and, stowing the orders
under his sash, the adjutant had saluted, faced about, and hastened
away.
And now that young official has received the reports of the first
sergeants and sent them, high-headed, martial, and precise, back to
their stations in the line. And now again he has faced the commanding
officer, saluted, and announced, "All are present, sir." And now that
deliberate functionary has at last said, "Publish the orders, sir." And
silence seems to fall, even upon the chatting groups of girls, as, with
brief "'Tentio-o-o-on to Orders," the adjutant drops the point of his
sword, letting it dangle from the gold swordknot on his wrist, and in
another moment the clear young voice is ringing over the attent and
martial audience.
"War Department, Washington, D.C., June 25, 189--," he begins, and then
briskly rattles away at the terse official paragraphs: "The following
assignment of graduates of the United States Military Academy are
hereby announced to take effect from June 14th." It begins with that
highly scientific and enviable body, the Corps of Engineers, and Mr.
George Graham, up to this moment still officially known as cadet,
touches his mother's arm at sound of the third name on the list--that
of Connell, his chum, his chosen comrade, his much-loved classmate
through the long four years. "Dear old Con," he murmurs into her ears.
"I'll telegraph my congratulations to him, whatever comes to me."
There are eight in all assigned to the engineers, and then come the
names of those gazetted to the artillery--five famous regiments, too,
and Graham notes with joy that Beard, Conway, Foster, and Lawrence, all
of whom were lower in general standing than himself, get their
longed-for billet with the "red legs," and his name is not mentioned.
That means he has not been assigned where he preferred not to go. But
would the war secretary assign him where he longed to be? Yes, here it
comes, first on the cavalry list, and his heart beats for joy.
"F----th Regiment of Cavalry.
"No. 15, Cadet George Montrose Graham to be Second Lieutenant,
Troop 'E,' _vice_ Fenton, promoted."
And though her eyes are brimming and her lips _will_ quiver, Mrs.
Graham clasps both her boy's hands in her own in speechless sympathy.
It cannot all be joy, for this means miles and miles of separation that
must come all too soon. Geordie can scarce believe his ears. Oh, it is
too good! Not only the --th, but "E" Troop, Captain Lane's troop, the
troop of which Feeny was first sergeant, the troop in which veteran
Sergeant Nolan, two years ago at old Fort Reynolds, had said he and the
men so hoped to see the day when Mr. Geordie might come back to them to
be their lieutenant.
And now McCrea was grasping and wringing his hand, with a "Welcome to
the old regiment, Geordie," and blue-eyed "Bud" was dancing rapturously
about until the doctor sternly bade him cease. "Is that the way you
think they behave at Columbia, sir?" having never seen the behavior of
Columbiads, or other collegians, at a ball match or boat-race or any
public occasion of undergraduate rejoicing. Even among the spectators
were many who lost interest for the moment in what the adjutant was
reading, and watched, with kindling eyes, the unexpected little scene.
But when Colonel Hazzard himself, the soldierly commandant, with his
silver-gray mustache and hair, came striding through the crowd and held
forth his hand to the young soldier, who instantly and instinctively
faced him at attention, everybody within hearing noted the cordiality
in his hearty tones as he shook Geordie's hand: "Mr. Graham, I'm more
than glad you got the regiment of your choice, and you're going to one
of the best captains in the army. I was on duty in tactics when Lane
was in the Corps. Well, Mrs. Graham, we think we are sending him the
making of one of the best lieutenants," and with that the colonel bowed
as he took the hand of Geordie's mother. "Good sons make good soldiers
all the world over, Mrs. Graham, and we'll expect great things of
yours," he added, then grasped the doctor's out-stretched hand and gave
way to others who came crowding forward, among them a gentle, motherly
woman in half-mourning, whose eyes were moist as she exchanged greeting
with Mrs. Graham.
"Benny will be here the moment they break ranks," she said. "I know he,
too, will want to congratulate George."
And so there was quite a little gathering, and what the papers call an
"ovation," about the young graduate, who was blushing not a little
through his healthy tan. He was quite unable to hear where his
classmates had been distributed in the other regiments of cavalry and
infantry, and he was anxious to know, but even when the line of cadet
officers came marching to the front and stood at salute before the
battalion commander, and then broke ranks, and as many as a dozen made
a rush at their former first captain, eager to take him by the hand and
say a word of congratulation before they went bounding away to doff
dress hats, plumes, and sashes--even then Graham could not see the
order, for Colonel Hazzard called for it to show to a bevy of
bright-eyed girls, who knew the graduating class, now scattered all
over the United States, knew almost every one of them better than they
did this, their foremost cadet officer, for George Graham, though he
could dance, had seemed to care little for hops and less for girls. His
few leisure hours of the last year at the Point he had spent at the
side of his mother.
But at last, leaving Mrs. Frazier and Benny at camp, the Grahams were
walking slowly homeward in the wake of the brave young battalion,
marching away with its quick, elastic stride to the spirited music of
the fifes and drums. Lieutenant McCrea was still with them, while
Lieutenant Wood, another family friend, had taken to the telegraph
office Geordie's pencilled words of congratulation to his chum Connell,
now lieutenant of engineers. Mrs. Graham leaned heavily on the arm of
her sturdy son, thinking of all the joy that had been hers, after the
years of separation. It had been such a welcome, welcome order that
took Major Graham to duty at West Point the last lap of their boy's
cadet life. Every Saturday evening he had spent "at home" in the
surgeon's quarters, and many a Sunday afternoon. How she had looked
forward from week end to week end! How swiftly had the weeks slipped
by! How would she miss him in the years to come! How lonely would be
the Saturdays and Sundays without her boys, for "Buddy" too, was to
leave the home nest. He had passed for Columbia and was to have some
terms at what the doctor loved to call "the humanities" before taking
up the study of medicine. Her heart had been full of rejoicing and
thanksgiving when graduation came, barely a fortnight agone--yet when,
for the last time in cadet uniform Geordie stood before her, so
soldierly, so manly, so honored by his comrades in the Corps, and she
followed him with brimming eyes when, leaving his diploma in her hand,
he turned away to his room, in the tower of the old first division, to
lay aside forever the plume and sash, the sword and chevrons of the
first captaincy, to shed the academy uniform for good and all, she knew
she wished the whole year could be lived over again; she knew she would
rather the time were still far distant when her son should "change the
gray for the blue."
But now, now, every hour of every day for three glorious and beautiful
months, she was to have him by her side. She need not, she would not,
think of the separation to come late in September, when he must join
his regiment and be her boy no more. At least she would try not to
think, but here was this cold, stern, business-like order to remind her
that she had given her first-born to the service of his country--that
now he belonged to the general government and no longer to her. All too
soon--oh, many weeks too soon--had the mandate appeared, for it would
haunt her day and night until the hour for parting came. Ah, thank God,
that at least would not be for weeks! Even Geordie now had become
silent and serious. He was listening to McCrea's eager words to Dr.
Graham, all about the regiment and Fort Reynolds, and how he wished
they were back there again, the finest station the --th had ever had,
he declared, and "so near the mines!"
"Just think, Geordie," he cried, "if we were all at Reynolds we could
run up the range to the Silver Shield any day, and watch them dragging
out gold."
"You haven't lost faith in the Shield, then?" asked Mrs. Graham,
smilingly. She thought and cared so little herself. She knew that
several officers at Reynolds, her husband and McCrea among them, had
invested their scant savings in that most promising venture. She knew
that McCrea had vowed it would make them all rich if not famous one of
these days, and that her methodical, cautious "canny Scot" of a husband
had figured, pondered, and consulted long before he, too, had become
convinced. She knew their holdings had been quoted far above what was
paid for them, but what of all that? She had her boys, her husband, her
army home, her health, and high content. What was wealth to her?
"I own I was thinking more of the hunting and fishing, the scenery, and
the splendid range," said Geordie, "but no matter where 'E' Troop goes,
I want to be with it."
"If the Shield pans out according to promise," said McCrea, with a
laugh, "the regiment won't see me for many a day after I realize. I'm
going in for a year's leave--and Europe."
They had reached the front of Grant Hall by this time and were
strolling slowly along, their voices hushed for the moment by the
cheery hum of boyish talk and the clatter of mess furniture, as the
Corps sat at their late supper. Then several officers, gathered about
the steps of the club rooms in the south end, lifted their caps to Mrs.
Graham and smiled greeting to the party.
"Come back, Geordie!" was the cheery hail. "We want to wet that
assignment in cavalry fashion." But Graham laughed and shook his head.
"Can't break away just now," said he. "I'll look in later."
"What I can't understand," said McCrea, "is that we got no word. With
Freeman and Blake both on duty in Washington, one would think they'd
have wired if they knew."
"It's coming now," said the doctor, pointing to the telegraph orderly
turning away from the steps of his quarters and coming swiftly toward
them, brown envelope in hand. Just in front of the hospital gateway he
met the party, saluted, and tendered the uppermost of two or three
despatches to the doctor.
"Freeman, I'm betting," said McCrea, as the doctor tore it open and
read. They walked on slowly, expectant, but he did not speak. Then Mrs.
Graham turned, gave one look, dropped Geordie's arm and clasped that of
her husband. The rugged, weather-beaten face had grown suddenly gray.
"George! husband!" she cried. "What's gone wrong?"
For answer he simply handed her the paper.
"Designate proxy; meeting Monday. Fear everything lost. Come if
possible."
"Mac," said the old doctor, solemnly, "it's Silver Shield that's melted
away. Everything we had in the world."