IX

Ralston removed his dress coat and seized the opportunity for a rapid

glance around the room. Farrer had retaken his seat and the others were

moving over to make room for an extra chair. The curtains, tightly

drawn, repelled the eddying smoke, which slowly drew toward the

fireplace.

Ralston had no time to study the men about him. He had recognized

Steadman immediately, but it was apparent that Steadman himself was in

no condition to recognize anybody. The boy sat limply in his chair with

his head down and his eyes rolled toward the ceiling, apparently

incapable of speech or action, yet suddenly returning to life and to

complete lucidity at irregular intervals. Farrer he knew by reputation.

The other three men were probably professional card sharps masquerading

under the guise of men about town. Of what he should eventually do

Ralston had no clear idea. It was obvious that the gang were not yet

through with Steadman, and, moreover, that until Steadman wanted to go

away he would stay where he was. He must fight for time and await his

opportunity.

Farrer sat with his back to the door, the two chairs to his left being

occupied by the gentlemen introduced as "Brown" and "Jones." Next to

them and facing Farrer came Steadman, with "Robinson" between him and

Ralston, who sat immediately to the right of Farrer and filled the last

seat. He thus had one of the most advantageous places at the table.

"Deal out," said Farrer to the man on his left. "It's getting late. Ante

up, boys. I have a hunch that something is coming my way this time."

The dealer dealt rapidly round, using, Ralston was particular to notice,

the same cards which had been laid on the table when he entered. It was

clear that a pack "stacked" for five could not be used for six, and

Ralston, picking up his hand and finding he had three jacks pat, pushed

in his white chip.

"I'll draw cards," said he quietly. All came in except Steadman, who

threw his cards down upon the table with an oath.

The dealer handed the remaining two men three cards each, Ralston took

one, Farrer three, and the dealer one. Although our novice did not

improve his hand, he raised a fifty-dollar bet made by the man upon his

right by a blue chip. Farrer dropped out and the dealer raised Ralston

another blue. The other two men dropped, and Ralston "saw" the dealer,

who threw down a busted flush.

"Good work, old man!" exclaimed Farrer. "You're no sucker. Deal for Mr.

X, there, Robinson."

"I can deal for myself, thanks," remarked Steadman, and indeed he

managed to do so surprisingly well.

This time Ralston held nothing and declined to play, while Steadman won

a small amount with two large pair. Each man had lying before him a pile

of greenbacks held in place by a heavy paper weight of brass surmounted

by an ash receiver, Steadman's pile being composed almost entirely of

one-thousand-dollar bills.

Presently Ralston found himself holding three queens on the deal and

filled on the draw with a pair of nines. The cards had been running

low, and he had already won in the neighborhood of twelve or thirteen

hundred dollars. The three queens following his three jacks struck him

as rather a coincidence, and betting merely a white chip he watched the

others to see what would happen. To his surprise all dropped out but

Steadman, who had drawn but a single card and who raised him a blue

chip. Ralston now raised in his turn a like amount, and Steadman, there

now being nearly five hundred dollars on the table, raised him a yellow.

But Ralston, feeling confident of his position, pushed in a brown--the

first thousand-dollar bet he had ever made. The gamblers were watching

them with interest.

"I win," said Steadman, shoving over a brown chip and throwing down a

flush. "All sky blue."

"Sorry," answered Ralston, "three ladies and a little pair."

"Curse the luck," growled Steadman. "One more hand and I quit."

"Quit?" cried one of the men. "Why, the game's young yet. Nobody's won

or lost anything to speak of. Don't go _now_! Mr. Sackett wants to play

and he's got a lot of our money. We're entitled to our revenge."

"I didn't ask him to play," mumbled Steadman. "I'm sick of the game and

I don't feel just right. I feel sort of sick. I'm only goin' to play one

more hand."

"All right! Jack pot!" cried Farrer cheerfully. "It's a house rule. Jack

pots on all full houses containing the royal family. A 'palace pot' we

call it. Give us a new pack."

One of the men leaned back and reached down a new unopened pack from a

side table. The cards they had been playing with were red. These were

blue and the revenue stamp was unbroken. But a new pack on a

declaration that the game was going to end struck Ralston as curiously

unnecessary. The air in the room was beginning to make his head swim,

and a glance at his watch disclosed that it was half after five. It was

time for him to get Steadman away, but how to do it?

"Hundred-dollar ante," said Farrer, shuffling the cards ostentatiously

and dealing himself a jack. They each put in a blue. Steadman was

helplessly fumbling his chips, counting and recounting them. Silence

fell upon the table as Farrer tossed the cards accurately to each

player.

As the last cards were being dealt Steadman's fifth card struck his

glass, balanced, and fell slowly over. It was a deuce of hearts.

"I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Farrer apologetically.

"Hang you!" escaped from one of the others, and Ralston saw that the

man's hands were trembling.

"I won't take that card," said Steadman, awaking suddenly as out of a

trance. "It's no good. Gimme another!"

Farrer flushed.

"I'm sorry, you'll have to take it. It's on the deal, not the draw. The

rule is as old as the game."

"I say I won't take it," snarled Steadman. "I haven't seen my hand. I

won't take it. I'll stay out, but I won't pick up that card--it's no

good." He gave a silly laugh.

One of the other men sprang to his feet.

"You've got to take it," he cried. "You can't refuse it. You've got to

abide by the rules."

"Sit down, you fool!" shouted Farrer, almost losing control of himself.

"Who's running this game? Mr. Steadman can't have another card. He can

look at his hand, and if he wants to stay out he can, but he's got to

play the cards he's got. Pick up your hand, old man. Don't let's get

upset over a little thing like that. Why, it may be the very card you

want."

But Steadman's obstinacy was aroused.

"I won't do either," said he. "_You_ can't make me play. I can stay out,

can't I? I can forfeit my ante. That's my own business, ain't it? Well,

I'll watch you fellers play for once. What's a blue chip!"

"You fool!" broke in one of the others. "Why don't you look at your

cards? Don't throw away a hundred dollars like that! Here, if you're so

proud, I'll look at 'em for you--and stay out."

He reached for the cards, but Steadman struck his hand away.

"Touch those cards if you dare!" he shouted, his eyes glaring. "Leave my

cards alone!"

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" exclaimed Farrer soothingly. "Of course, Mr. X

can refuse to play if he likes. It's his privilege. Won't you change

your mind? Well, take out your chip--nobody objects. Count it a dead

hand."

"My chip stays in and I stay out," muttered Steadman.

Ralston saw a furtive look pass between two of the others. Farrer dealt

the remaining cards and picked up his hand, grunting as he looked at his

cards. The man next him swore softly.

"I can't open it," he growled.

"Nothin' doin'," said the second gambler.

Steadman remained staring at his deuce of hearts.

"By me!" remarked the third gambler. Then Ralston picked up his hand.

He felt as he used to feel when under the student lamp in his college

room he had calculated the chances of filling a bobtail straight as

against a four flush. The others were watching him eagerly. Four jacks

closely backed one another in his hand. He could hardly suppress a grin.

"Ye-es, I'll open it," he remarked hesitantly. He toyed with the yellows

and the browns. Then his fingers slipped across the pile. "I'll let you

all in easy," he said affably, "for a little white seed."

The gambler across the table bit his lip.

"Well, I'm in!" exclaimed Farrer with an affectation of

light-heartedness. "It's just about my limit."

The other three pushed in their chips without comment. Each of them took

one card. Ralston took one. Farrer took four.

"Ah!" sighed the latter, half to himself.

"Well, this looks pretty good to me," said the first gambler with a

slight smile, pushing in a brown chip.

The second gambler pursed up his lips and shrugged his shoulders. "Suits

me, too," he remarked good-naturedly, "I'll up you a thousand."

He contributed two brown chips with great deliberation. Steadman was

giggling foolishly.

"Where would I have been?" he gibbered. "The tall grass wouldn't have

hidden me."

The third gambler now came into the game. It appeared that he, also,

thought highly of his hand, for he raised both his comrades by a brown

chip.

"One, two--and back again!" he murmured. "I've got you pinched. Only six

thousand in the pot--and four aces will take it all! Come right in, Mr.

Sackett, the water's warm." They watched him covetously.

"Oh, I don't know," answered Ralston with deliberation. "I have one or

two cards myself. They look pretty good to _me_! But then I'm not used

to the game. I wonder if you'd stand a raise." He picked up four brown

chips and counted them slowly. They eyed him, hardly breathing. Then

Ralston laid the chips back on the table.

"No," said he regretfully. "It's too high for me. Here are my openers,"

and he threw down his hand face upward on the table.

"Four j-jacks!" stammered Steadman, rubbing his eyes. "Four j-jacks!"

The others, with the exception of Farrer, had arisen and stood glowering

at Ralston.

"What's this?" exclaimed Farrer harshly.

"What's your game?" cried another.

"Nothing, gentlemen. I lie down. That's all. It's my privilege."

The gambler ground his teeth and placed his cards on the table.

"Aren't you going to finish the game?" asked Ralston with elaborate

sarcasm.

"Of course we are," shot back Farrer. "Only to see a man do a damn fool

thing like that is enough to bust up any game." He looked at his cards.

"I'm out," he added shortly.

The first gambler did not seem to regard his hand any longer with favor,

for he "dropped" immediately. So also did the second, and the third drew

the chips toward him, no cards having been disclosed.

Steadman was still giggling feebly.

"I say," he mumbled again, "you _are_ easy! Four jacks! O my! O----"

"Do you think so?" inquired Ralston politely, as he reached quickly

across the table and, picking up the first gambler's hand, turned it

over. The man grabbed for the cards, but he was an instant too late.

Four aces lay under the gaslight.

"Not so easy, eh?" continued Ralston. "Pretty good judgment, it seems to

me. I'll have my ante back, if you please," and he replaced one of the

blue chips on his own pile. "It requires more nerve to lay down four

aces than four jacks."

The men stared at him without speaking, and Farrer arose abruptly.

"I supposed I was in a respectable game," he announced with severity.

"If you gentlemen," turning to Ralston and Steadman, "will step

downstairs I will adjust matters with you. As for you," addressing the

other three, "make yourselves scarce and never come into my house

again." They moved slowly toward the door.

"Don't worry on our account, Mr. Farrer," remarked Ralston suavely. "I'm

sure the matter was merely a coincidence. Seeing a man lie down on four

jacks is enough to account for any apparent little irregularity." But,

before he had finished, the three, closely followed by Farrer, had

departed. Then Ralston looked over to where Steadman was sitting with a

smile of utter lassitude.

"We were well out of that, I fancy," said he.

"I wonder what _I_ had?" answered Steadman dreamily. He fumbled

unsteadily for his hand and turned it over card by card.

The first was a deuce of spades.

"Oh!" he remarked, "a pair of 'em, anyhow."

The next was a deuce of diamonds, and the last a deuce of clubs.

Steadman looked stupidly around the table.

"Four little twos!" he muttered. "And _you_ had four knaves and he had

four aces. I guess there's a special Providence looking out for _me_.

Say, what won that pot, anyway?"

Farrer suddenly reappeared at the door.

"Here's your money, gentlemen," he remarked, counting the chips in front

of each of them and throwing down the appropriate number of bills.

"Sorry to have the game broken up in such a way, but these sharps get in

everywhere. I hope you won't mention the incident. I have a very fine

line of patrons and nothing of the kind has ever occurred before."

As he turned away Steadman raised his eyes and looked the gambler full

in the face.

"Farrer," said he, "you've robbed me--you and your gang. Some time I'll

make you pay for it, you--thief!" Then the fire died as suddenly as it

had come, his head dropped forward listlessly, his eyes rolled

ceiling-ward, and he fell to mumbling and muttering to himself. Ralston

sprang to his side, as Farrer slid through the door.

"I'm Dick Ralston," he said. "Don't you recognize me?"

Steadman gazed at him stolidly.

"Rals'on?" he muttered. "Rals'on? So you are! I guess you are. Why not?

What of it?"

He put his head on his arms and leaned them against the table top.

Ralston grasped him by the shoulder and shook him roughly.

"Pull yourself together!" he cried. "You must get out of here quickly."

He shook Steadman again.

"Don't you understand?" he said sharply. "Your regiment leaves in an

hour. _Your regiment!_ Your company!"

Steadman looked at him dully. A burned-out cigarette hung from his under

lip by its own cohesive ability.

"Rats!" he muttered. "I've chucked all that. Regiment can go for all of

me unless it wants to wait."

"You fool!" shouted Ralston. "Don't you see it's the end of you if you

don't go!"

"The end's come already! I'm a dead one now!"

"Get up there!" returned Ralston. "I'll put you at the head of your

company in forty minutes. Get up, I say."

"Don't be an ass, Rals'on!" snarled Steadman. "I'll do as I choose. I

tell you it's too late!"

"It's nothing of the kind. Why, man, your uniform's all ready for you.

They haven't started yet. Buck up!"

"You seem awful interested, it strikes me."

"Never mind that. Just be thankful some one cared enough to give you the

tip. Come on now."

"I tell you it's too late. How the hell can I go--to _war_?" Steadman

laughed in a sickly fashion.

Ralston's heart sank and his gorge rose. Had he sacrificed his future

for a cad like this? And was he going to fail besides?

"You miserable snipe!" he cried, for an instant utterly losing control

of himself.

"You shan't--insult me!" chattered Steadman, rising unsteadily to his

feet. In a flash Ralston perceived the possibilities of the situation.

"You're a coward, Steadman!" he cried. "A welcher!"

Steadman's eyes glared wildly. "I'll kill you for that!" he gasped.

"Come on down and fight it out then, if you're a man," sneered Ralston,

turning and making for the head of the stairs. Steadman groped his way

after him along the wall.

"Come on, you welcher!" taunted Ralston.

With an inarticulate cry of anger, Steadman clasped the banisters and

half slid, half stumbled to the entrance hall.

"I'll fight you here!" he cried. "I'll kill you!"

"No! No!" answered Ralston. "Outside."

Marcus attempted to put on Steadman's coat, but the latter fought him

angrily off. Then he staggered and nearly fell.

"Oh, I'm sick!" he cried. "I can't see."

"Catch him!" directed Ralston, springing to his side and guiding him

across the threshold. They led him down the steps, hustled him across

the sidewalk and into the hansom.

"Where to?" inquired cabby automatically.

"John McCullough's--drive like mad!" replied Ralston.

X

"Keep away from me," muttered Steadman, as Ralston climbed into the cab

beside him. "Keep away, or I'll kill you." His face had turned a livid

yellow, and he lay limp against the cushions. The cabby started his

horse round the corner into the avenue.

"Steadman!" cried Ralston, sick at heart. "Steadman, old man! I

apologize! I beg your pardon! Do you understand? I _apologize_. It was

just a trick to get you out--away."

"Ugh!" groaned the other.

"Brace up! You'll be all right in a minute. All right--in a minute.

Understand? Fit as a preacher!"

"I don't know. I'm awfully sick!"

They raced down the avenue in silence until, with a sharp turn, the

hansom dashed into East Twenty-seventh Street and stopped with a lurch

in front of a low red-brick house close to the corner.

The clock on the corner church showed that he had less than an hour and

a half as Ralston rushed to the steps and rang the bell. The door was

almost instantly opened by a heavily built man with a pleasant Irish

face.

"Hello, Mr. Ralston!" he ejaculated.

"Sh!" answered the other. "Get this man out quick and into the house.

You've got to knock him into shape inside of ten minutes. He's at the

end of a long one. Ten minutes, do you understand?"

"Leave him to me," answered the matter-of-fact McCullough, then crossing

to the cab, "Give me your arm, sir," he said to Steadman.

"Leave me alone!" muttered Steadman.

Without another word the Irishman put his arms around him, and, as if he

were a child, lifted him to the ground, across the sidewalk, and into

the house.

Ralston followed and closed the door. Outside, the cabby fell asleep

again and the horse stood with one hip six inches higher than the other

and its head between its legs.

"Hi there, Terry! Sthrip off the gent's clothes!"

Another husky Irishman appeared from somewhere, and the two led Steadman

into a sort of dressing room, where they speedily relieved him of his

garments. Without a pause McCullough opened a glass door into a tiled

passage at the end of which could be seen another door clouded with

steam. First, however, he poured a teaspoonful of absinthe into the palm

of his hand and held it to Steadman's face. "Snuff it up yer nose!" said

he.

Steadman seemed dazed. Like a half-resuscitated man he did as he was

told, gagging and coughing.

"Come here now," said Terry.

Steadman walked quietly down the passage.

"Only for a minute," said the bath man.

He opened the door and shoved Steadman in, closing and locking it behind

him.

"That's all he needs," commented McCullough.

"How long will you give him?"

"Just five minutes. He didn't like the absinthe, did he?"

Ralston laughed softly. He knew what twentieth century miracles

McCullough could work.

"Have you got a telephone?" he inquired.

"Shure," answered Mac, leading the way to the office.

Ralston lost no time in calling up the armory.

"I want Clarence. Send him to the 'phone!"

A wait of a couple of minutes followed.

"Is that you, Clarence?"

"Yassah."

"Jump on a car and bring Mr. Steadman's uniform and valise to ---- East

Twenty-seventh Street at once."

When he returned to the passage Steadman was beating feebly on the glass

door from the inside. Terry grinned and shook his head, holding up two

fingers. The tortured one threw himself in agony into a steamer chair,

only to leap instantly to his feet with an inaudible yell of pain.

"Are you ready?" Terry inquired of his employer.

"Shure."

They threw open the door and each grabbed an arm of their victim,

dragging him down the passage into the dressing room. Another door

opened into a room in which was a large tank. Without ceremony the two

Irishmen swung their glistening patient off the edge and into the water.

Steadman shrieked, choked and splashed helplessly.

"Down wit' him!" cried McCullough, and they forced him beneath the

surface.

"Ag'in!"

Down he went.

"Now up!" and they lifted him bodily up on to the floor once more, and

yanked him streaming into the dressing room. Steadman's face was a

bright red, but he walked to a corner, while the two Irishmen with two

little towels gently blotted the water from his back, sides, and arms.

His legs they left to take care of themselves.

"Ready there!" cried McCullough, giving Steadman a sharp blow that sent

him staggering across the room.

"Back again!" yelled Terry, punching his victim in the chest with his

open hand and sending him reeling toward McCullough.

Then they threw themselves upon him, slapping him, banging him from side

to side, pulling his ears, arms and nose until he holloed for mercy,

tossing him from one to the other, and swinging him at full length by

his hands and feet. Finally, they flung him helpless, red and gasping

for breath, upon a table. Once more they slapped him until he glowed

like a lobster, and then rubbed him down with alcohol.

"On with his clothes!" shouted Ralston. "How do you feel, Jack, old

man?"

"All right!" replied Steadman weakly, with a grin. "How they murdered

me!"

At this moment the street bell rang and a middle-aged negro appeared

with a valise, tin box, and chamois-covered sword.

"Why, it's old Clarence!" ejaculated Steadman.

The negro undid the valise and took out the olive-drab khaki field

uniform. In a trice he had buckled and buttoned the delinquent officer

into it. From the tin box came a campaign hat. Steadman fastened on the

sword himself. There were tears of feeble excitement in his eyes.

"Are you sure it's not too late?" he asked anxiously.

"I've taken my oath to get you there," answered Ralston.

"By George! You're a good fellow!" repeated Steadman. He held out his

hand. "You've saved my reputation--I might almost say--my life."

Ralston took the hand held out to him, the hand only a few moments

before raised against him in anger. It was quite warm. McCullough had

done his bit well.

"You weren't yourself. You didn't realize--" he began, and stopped. The

room swam before his eyes, and he groped for a chair. With the partial

accomplishment of his object, and the consequent physical and mental

relaxation, the fatigue of the pursuit and the nervous strain which he

had been under took possession of him. He found the chair and sank into

it, shutting out the light with his hand. Steadman called McCullough,

who quickly brought him something to drink. Somewhat revived, Ralston

staggered to his feet eager to escape from the warmth of the overheated

room and to finish his task.

"Come along, Steadman. We haven't much time. Less than an hour."

"Poor old chap, you're done up!"

"No, no; I'm all right. We must be getting along."

"But we don't leave, you say, until seven!"

"I know, but we must be getting along."

"Where?"

Ralston hesitated.

"I'll tell you outside." He shuffled toward the door. Steadman followed.

On the steps he turned toward Ralston inquiringly.

"Ellen has been waiting," said the latter in a low voice, looking away.

"What do you mean? Does she know?" asked Steadman in a whisper.

"I don't know how much," replied Ralston. "She feared you were going to

lose your chance--that you'd be done for, and asked me to try and look

you up. She--she cares for you, I think."

Steadman uttered a groan.

"Oh, I'm a brute," he muttered.

He looked anything but a brute in his olive-drab uniform, campaign hat

and shining sword.

"Come along," said Ralston, grabbing him by the arm. They took their

seats in the hansom.

"Where to?" asked the cabby monotonously.

"The Chilsworth," said Ralston.

Once more the exhausted animal climbed wearily up Fifth Avenue. A touch

of yellow sunlight was just gilding the housetops on the left, and the

street stretched gray and solitary northward.

"You say she's waiting?" Steadman asked nervously.

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"All night."

Steadman shuddered.

"How did you know where to look for me?"

"I didn't."

Ralston was beginning to feel the revivifying effects of the whisky and

soda and the fresh morning air.

"''Twas like looking for a needle in haystack,'" he hummed. "'Although

the chance of finding it was small.' Not an easy job, my friend."

"But I didn't know you were in New York!"

"I'd only been back a few days."

"And Ellen asked you to hunt me up?"

"Ye-es."

Again Ralston felt weary, awfully weary, and sleepy.

"By George, you're a brick!"

"Oh, don't mention it!" yawned this "finder of lost persons."

"But why should you? You hardly knew me!"

"Somebody had to do it."

"And that somebody had to know _how_, eh?"

"It would appear so. You'd concealed yourself pretty effectually for

some time. Your friend the colonel was getting anxious, you know."

"How on earth did you ever do it?"

"Tell you some time," answered Ralston sleepily. "By the way, do you

mind saying how long you'd been in that house?"

"Three days."

"And lost----?"

"Twenty-seven thousand dollars."

"No one seemed to know you gambled."

"I don't. It was my first experience."

"How long has this little expedition lasted?"

"Two weeks."

The Searcher glanced at his companion. Already the stimulus of the bath

had succumbed to fatigue. The face was drawn and hollow; the eyes red;

the mouth twitched. Ralston turned away, his old loathing and disgust

returning in an instant.

The driver turned into Fifty-seventh Street, and the sun jumped above

the housetops. Suddenly Steadman burst into tears, sobbing in long-drawn

hollow sobs like a wearied child, covering his face with his hands.

"Come, come, buck up! This won't do!" exclaimed Ralston.

"O God!" groaned Steadman tremulously. "I can't face her. Turn around!

Anywhere!"

"You shall see her!" answered the other. "And now!"

Steadman wiped his eyes. His chest heaved convulsively. He had grown

quite pale.

"Don't make me!" he gasped.

"You shall see her--as you are," repeated Ralston, "and thank her for

having saved you from disgrace."

Steadman said nothing more. The cab drew up before the door of an

apartment house.

"Here we are," said Ralston. "Get out!"

Steadman hesitated.

"Get out! Do you hear?" shouted Ralston, with anger in his eyes.

Steadman obeyed, his companion following close behind him. Inside, a

darky sat fast asleep by the elevator. Ralston rapped loudly upon the

glass and the man moved, rubbed his eyes, and came stupidly to the door.

"Take this gentleman up to Miss Ferguson's apartment," said Ralston.

"I'll wait below for you. You can have just ten minutes, understand?"

He returned to the sidewalk. The cabby had fallen asleep again. A

feeling of intense loneliness swept over him. He longed to throw himself

inside the hansom and rest his exhausted frame. His bones ached and his

muscles seemed strange and raspy, and he kept himself awake by walking

nervously backward and forward before the house. He could hardly keep

his eyes from closing and his knees trembled as if he were convalescing

from an illness.

"I did it!" he repeated over and over to himself. "By George! I did

it!--saved him for her. Only for me and he would be what he called

himself--'a dead one.'"

The sunlight in the street grew momentarily brighter. Milk wagons groped

their way from door to door, the horses stopping undirected at the

proper places, and starting up again in response to uncouth roars from

the drivers.

An elevated train rattled by at the end of the street, and some workmen

in overalls, conversing loudly in a foreign dialect, hurried noisily

past. A few maids unchained front doors, gave the rugs feeble flaps, and

eyed Ralston curiously before going inside to resume their domestic

duties.

He found that he was walking in a circle. His brain had fallen asleep.

He realized that he had been dreaming, but the dream was vague and

indistinct. Then he heard the faint sound of distant music. A housemaid

dropped her rug and ran toward the avenue. Two pedestrians turned back

in the same direction. A driver jumped into his milk wagon and sent the

horse galloping.

Ralston listened. Yes, the music was getting louder. They were playing

"Good-by, Little Girl, Good-by!" It must be the regiment on their way

from the armory to the ferry. He looked at his watch with a lump in his

throat. It was "good-by" for him as well as for Steadman. There was no

longer any doubt. Perhaps he could get a commission. He'd go away,

anyhow.

A hastily formed group of spectators on the corner began to wave their

hats. The band was very near. A squad of figures stepping briskly in

time came into view, at their head the erect form of Colonel Duer. He

could recognize the other members of the staff, the adjutant, the

commissary, the quartermaster, the doctor--he knew them all. On the left

trudged the chaplain.

"Good-by, Little Girl, Good-by!"

The drum major following the staff turned and swung his baton, then

resumed his former position. By George, they were playing well! Ah! What

a difference it made when it was real business. Just behind the band

followed the field music, with old "Davie" carrying the drum.

"Good-by, Little Girl, Good-by!"

The drums passed and the fifers. Then at a little distance came the

lieutenant colonel and his staff at the head of the first battalion,

marching full company front down the avenue. Ralston's heart beat

faster. That was where _he_ could have been. How well those boys

marched; just like a parade, their yellow legs eating up--eating

up--eating up--eating up the ground. The band had grown fainter. You

could hear the chupp--chupp--chupp--chupp of the hundreds of feet. Eyes

front! No one to look at them, but eyes front! This was business. How

trim they looked, each man in his olive-drab uniform, leggings, and

russet shoes. How set were the faces beneath the gray felt hats! How

lightly they bore their heavy load of haversack, yellow blanket roll,

canteen, and cartridge belt. How the sword bayonets at their sides

clinked and threw back the light to the blue barrels of their

Krag-Jorgensens!

"Good-by, Little Girl, Good-by," came faintly from the distance. Still

the yellow rows kept passing. The first battalion ended.

Then a major appeared, walking alone, followed closely by a captain and

first lieutenant. Ralston strained his eyes for the yellow line behind

them. Ah, there they were! Good boys! Good boys!

The even companies swung by until the battalion had passed.

Then came another major at the head of the third battalion. The third

battalion! The line swept across from curb to curb with a single man

behind the major--a lieutenant. Company D! Steadman's! The major's face

was set in a hard frown. Ralston laughed feebly. That was all right.

He'd fix that. Just wait a few minutes. His captain would be there.

The little crowd on the corner began to cheer. Another company came into

view. They had the colors--the dear old colors. Ralston doffed his hat

and held it to his breast, straining his glance after the flag. The

pavement floated away from him and his eyes filled with hot tears. He

could not see the lines of marching men, but stood staring at the corner

beyond which the colors had disappeared.

Overcome with utter exhaustion, he sobbed hysterically, grasping the

iron railing at his side. In a moment he got the better of himself and

brushed the tears hastily away. Then a hand was laid upon his shoulder

and he turned to see Ellen, her own eyes moist, and her face pale,

looking up at him.

"Ellen!"

"Dick!"

That was all. At the end of the block the hospital corps with their

stretchers were just passing out of sight. Steadman stood on the steps,

leaning against the doorway. He grinned in a sheepishly good-natured

manner at Ralston.

"Well, I found him!" the latter managed to announce in a fairly natural

tone.

"So I see," answered Ellen, "and ready to report for duty."

"Well, I guess I'll say good-by," said Ralston awkwardly. "You people

can have the cab as long as the horse lasts."

"No, you don't," said Steadman. "Remember you've agreed to put me at the

head of my company. You haven't done it yet! Has he, Ellen?"

"No, we intend to take you with us to the ferry," she answered with a

smile.

The word "we" sent a pang through Ralston's tired heart, and for an

instant the sunlight paled before his eyes.

"Come, jump in, both of you," said Ellen.

She seemed very cheerful, and strangely enough, so did Steadman. Ralston

wondered if when people cared like that just seeing each other again

would have such a stimulating effect. For his own part he was too tired

to speak. As they trotted slowly down Fifth Avenue Ellen and Steadman

kept up a lively conversation. She admired his uniform, his sword, his

belt; talked of the other men and officers she knew in the regiment, and

of the chagrin of Lieutenant Coffin, when his captain should oust him

from his temporary place at the head of the company. On Twenty-third

Street, near Eighth Avenue, they overtook the regiment, and followed the

remainder of the distance close behind the hospital corps. Then silence

fell upon them. The actual parting loomed vividly just before them at

the ferry.

Crowds of people, mostly small tradesmen and persons living in the

neighborhood, had already begun to collect and follow the troops toward

the place of embarkation. Ahead, the band was playing "Garry Owen," and

the colors blazed in the sunlight. The regiment looked like a field of

yellow corn waving in the breeze. About a hundred yards from the ferry

house a few sharp orders came down the line and the regiment halted--at

"rest."

Steadman looked at his watch.

"Three minutes to seven," he said, snapping the case. "I guess the old

man will drop when he sees _me_!"

"Just in time!" murmured Ellen.

"Drive along, cabby, to the head of the procession," added Steadman.

There was plenty of space to allow the hansom to pass near the curb, and

they drove slowly along past the three battalions to where the colonel

and his staff stood waiting for the gates to be opened. The band had

ceased playing. The men laughed and jested, watching the lone hansom and

its three occupants with interest.

At the stone posts by the entrance the cab stopped and Steadman shook

hands with Ellen. The smile had gone from his face.

"Good-by, Ellen--good-by!"

"Good-by, John," she answered.

Ralston had turned away his head.

"Well, good-by, old man! Accept the prodigal's insufficient thanks.

You're a brick, Ralston. Good-by!"

Beside the hansom Steadman paused for an instant and looked up.

"Don't forget what I said, Ellen! The fellow I spoke of is 'a prince.'

Good-by!"

He turned and walked rapidly to where the colonel stood talking to the

chaplain. All the fatigue had vanished from his step as he drew himself

up before his commanding officer and saluted.

The staff had turned to him in amazement.

"I report for duty, sir!" he said simply.

The colonel stared at him for a moment.

"Take your company, sir!" he replied tartly.

Steadman saluted again, and grasping his sword ran down the line, while

a wave of comment and ejaculation followed just behind him.

At this moment a whistle blew inside the ferry house, and a porter

slowly swung the gates open.

The colonel drew his sword.

"Attention!" said he, glancing behind him.

"Attention!" ordered the lieutenant colonel.

"Attention!" shouted the majors.

As the regiment stiffened, Steadman stepped to the head of his company.

"Good morning, Mr. Coffin," he remarked nonchalantly.

"Good morning," replied the astounded lieutenant.

Then as the order flew down the line Steadman drew his sword.

"Attention!" he cried in a clear voice.

Behind the staff the drum major held his baton in air, and the musicians

stood with their instruments at their lips ready for the order.

The colonel's eye flew down the line.

"Forward--" he cried.

Down came the drum major's baton. The band started "There'll be a Hot

Time!"

"--March!" concluded the colonel, and, turning front, stepped ahead.

"Forward--march!" shouted the lieutenant colonel. The order was

instantly repeated by the captains.

The battalion came to shoulder arms and moved forward.

"Horrard, Hutch! Horrard, Hutch!" howled the majors.

"Urrgh! Uhh! Huh! Huh!" yelled the captains.

Each company tossed its rifles into place, dressed down the line, marked

step for a moment, and then flashed its hundred legs in unison to the

band. The yellow field of corn once more wavered in the wind and blew

slowly forward.

Ellen and Ralston sat motionless in the hansom as the battalions tramped

by. At the head of his company marching with drawn sword, his head

slightly bent and his gaze straight before him, came Steadman, but his

eyes sought them not. The hospital corps with their stretchers brought

up the rear and disappeared through the gates. The commissariat wagons

followed stragglingly. The band could be heard dimly in the distance.

Then the whistle blew again and the man who had opened the gates ran out

and closed them. The Twelfth had gone--with a full quota of officers.

"The Chilsworth," said Ralston, through the manhole.

The driver once more hitched the reins over the back of his moribund

beast, and they started uptown.

"Dick," said Ellen suddenly, in a whisper, "Dick!"

He turned toward her inquiringly.

"Yes, Ellen?"

"I--I was mistaken last night," she said, coloring and looking away from

him.

"What do you mean?" cried Ralston, his heart leaping.

"That--there was only one," she answered softly, smiling through her

tears, "and--and--_it wasn't_ John!"

The cabby grinned sleepily and silently closed the manhole, with a

fatherly expression illuminating his corrugated countenance.

"Hully gee!" he muttered meditatively. "I mighta known there was a woman

mixed up in it, somehow! Glad he got her!--Git on thar, you!"

Between the ferry houses the boat was swinging out into midstream, her

decks crowded with yellow figures, and across the dancing waves the wind

bore the faint strains of "Good-by, Little Girl, Good-by."