No sound except the rapping of a woodpecker came from the woods. Peter breathed regularly. Presently he opened his eyes.

"It's in the ribs, by the feel of it—but it doesn't hurt much," he said. "Felt like a kick from a horse at first. Remember not to say anything about Jim Hammond."

They put him to bed at the first farmhouse they reached. All his clothing on the right side was stiff with blood. Dick bandaged the wound; and a doctor arrived two hours later. The bullet had nipped in and out, splintering a rib, and lay just beneath the skin. Peter had bled a good deal, but not to a dangerous extent.

Before sunrise the next morning Dick and Frank Sacobie set out on their return journey, taking with them a brief telegram and a letter for Capt. Long. Peter had dictated the message, but had written the letter with great effort, one wavery word after another.

Mr. Hammond and John Starkley reached Pike Settlement late at night. The storekeeper seemed broken in spirit, but some color came back to his face when he saw Peter lying there in the bed at the farmhouse with as cheerful an air as if he had only strained his ankle.

"I must see you a few minutes alone before I leave," he whispered, stooping over the bed.

"Don't worry," answered Peter.

John Starkley was vastly relieved to find his son doing so well. His bewilderment that any one in that country should pull a trigger on Peter almost swamped his indignation. The more he thought it over the more bewildered he became.

"You haven't an enemy in the world, Peter—except the Germans," he said. "But that was no chance shot. If it had been an accident, the fellow with the rifle would have come out to lend a hand."

"I guess that's so," replied Peter. "Maybe it was a German. It means a lot to the Kaiser to keep me out of this war."

His father smiled. "Joking aside, lad," he said, "who do you suppose it was? What was the bullet? Many a murderer has been traced before now on a less likely clue than a bullet."

"Isn't the bullet on the table there, Mr. Hammond? The doctor gave it to me, and I chucked it somewhere—over there or somewhere."

They looked in vain for the bullet. Later, when the guests and the household were at supper, Mr. Hammond excused himself from table and ran up to Peter's room. He closed the door behind him, leaned over the bed and grasped Peter's left hand in both of his.

"I did my best," he whispered. "I found him and told him you had been sent because the officer wanted to give him a chance. But he had been drinking heavy. He wasn't himself, Peter—he was like a madman. I begged him to come back with me, but he wouldn't hear reason or kindness. He knocked me down—me, his own father—and got away from that house. What are you going to do, Peter? You are a man, Starkley—a big man—big enough to be merciful. What d'you mean to do?"

"Nothing," said Peter. "I came to find Jim, and I haven't found him. I got shot instead by some one I haven't seen hair, hide or track of. It's up to the army to find Jim, if they still want him; but as far as I am concerned he may be back with the battalion this minute for all I know. I hope he is. As for the fellow who made a target of me, well, he didn't kill me, and I don't hold a grudge against him."

Mr. Hammond went home the first thing in the morning. John Starkley waited until the doctor called again and dressed the wound and said he had never seen any one take a splintered rib and a hole in the side so well as Peter.

"If he keeps on like this, you'll be able to take him home in ten days or so," said the doctor.

So John Starkley returned to Beaver Dam, delivered the good news to his family and heard in return that young Frank Sacobie had gone to St. John and joined the 26th.

CHAPTER III
THE VETERANS OF OTHER DAYS

Jim Hammond vanished. The army marked him as a deserter, and even his own battalion forgot him. Confused rumors circulated round his home village for a little while and then faded and expired. As Jim Hammond vanished from the knowledge and thought of men, so vanished the mysterious rifleman who had splintered Peter's rib.

Spring brought the great news of the stand of the First Canadian Division at Ypres—the stand of the few against the many, of the Canadian militia against the greatest and most ruthless fighting machine of the whole world. The German army was big and ready, but it was not great as we know greatness now. The little Belgians had already checked it and pierced the joints of its armor; the French had beaten it against odds; the little old army of England, with its monocles and its tea and its pouter-chested sergeant majors, had outshot it and outfought it at every meeting; and now three brigades of Canadian infantry and a few batteries of Canadian artillery had stood undaunted before its deluge of metal and strangling gas and held it back from the open road to Calais and Paris.

Lieut. Pat Hammond wrote home about the battle. He had been in the edge of it and had escaped unhurt. Henry Starkley, of the First Field Company, was there, too. He received a slight wound. Private letters and the great stories of the newspapers thrilled the hearts of thousands of peaceful, unheroic folk. Volunteers flowed in from lumber camps and farms.

In May Dick Starkley made the great move of his young life. He was now seventeen years old and sound and strong. He saw that Peter could not get away with his battalion—that, unless something unexpected happened, the Second Canadian Division would get away without a Starkley of Beaver Dam.

So he did the unexpected thing: he went away to St. John without a word, introduced himself to Sgt. Dave Hammer as Peter's brother, added a year to his age and became a member of the 26th Battalion. He found Frank Sacobie there, already possessed of all the airs of an old soldier.

Dick sent a telegram to his father and a long, affectionate, confused letter to his mother. His parents understood and forgave and went to St. John and told him so—and Peter sent word that he, too, understood; and Dick was happy. Then with all his thought and energy and ambition he set to work to make himself a good soldier.

Peter did not grumble again about his sick leave. His wound healed; and as the warm days advanced he grew stronger with every day. He had been wounded in the performance of his duty as surely as if a German had fired the shot across the mud of No Man's Land; so he accepted those extra months in the place and life he loved with a gratitude that was none the less deep for being silent.

In June the Battalion embarked for England, in strength eleven hundred noncommissioned officers and men and forty-two officers. After an uneventful voyage of eleven days they reached Devenport, in England, on the twenty-fourth day of the month. The three other battalions of the brigade had reached England a month before; the 26th joined them at the training camps in Kent and immediately set to work to learn the science of modern warfare. They toiled day and night with vigor and constancy; and before fall the battalion was declared efficient for service at the front.

Both Dick Starkley and Frank Sacobie throve on the hard work. The musketry tests proved Sacobie to be one of the best five marksmen in the battalion. Dick was a good shot, too, but fell far below his friend at the longer ranges. In drill, bombing and physical training, Dick showed himself a more apt pupil than the Malecite. At trench digging and route marching there was nothing to choose between them, in spite of the fact that Sacobie had the advantage of a few inches in length of leg. Both were good soldiers, popular with their comrades and trusted by their officers. Both were in Dave Hammer's section and Mr. Scammell's platoon.

One afternoon in August Henry Starkley turned up at Westenhanger, on seven days' leave from France. He looked years older than when Dick had last seen him and thinner of face, and on his left breast was stitched the ribbon of the military cross. He obtained a pass for Dick and took him up to London. They put up at a quiet hotel off the Strand, at which Henry had stopped on his frequent week-end visits to town from Salisbury Plain. As they were engaged in filling in the complicated and exhaustive registration form the hall porter gave Henry three letters and told him that a gentleman had called several times to see him.

"What name?" asked Henry.

"That he didn't tell me, sir," replied the porter, "but as it was him wrote the letters you have in your hand you'll soon know, sir."

Henry opened one of the envelopes and turned the inclosure over in quest of the writer's signature. There it was—J. A. Starkley-Davenport. All three letters were from the same hand, penned at dates several weeks apart. They said that before her marriage the writer's mother had been a Miss Mary Starkley, daughter of a London merchant by the name of Richard Starkley. Richard Starkley, a colonial by birth with trade connections with the West Indies, had come from Beaver Dam in the province of New Brunswick. The letters said further that their writer had read in the casualty lists the name of Lieut. Henry Starkley of the Canadian Engineers, and that after diligent inquiry he had learned that this same officer had registered at the Canadian High Commissioner's office in October, 1914, and given his London address as the Tudor Hotel. Failing to obtain any further information concerning Henry Starkley, the writer had kept a constant eye on the Tudor Hotel. He begged Mr. Henry Starkley to ring up Mayfair 2607, without loss of time, should any one of these letters ever come to his hand.

"What's his hurry, I wonder?" remarked Henry. "After three generations without a word I guess he'll have to wait until to-morrow morning to hear from the Starkleys of Beaver Dam."

"Why not let him wait for three more generations?" suggested Dick. "His grandfather, that London merchant, soon forgot about the people back in the woods at Beaver Dam. Since the second battle of Ypres, this lad with the hitched-up-double name wants to be seen round with you, Henry."

"If that's all, he does not want much," said Henry. "We'll take a look at him, anyway. Don't forget that the first Starkley of Beaver Dam was once an English soldier and that there was a first battle of Ypres before there was a second."

The brothers, the lieutenant of engineers and the infantry private, had dinner at a restaurant where there were shaded candles and music; then they went to a theater. Although the war was now only a year old, London had already grown accustomed to the "gentleman ranker." Brothers, cousins and even sons of officers in the little old army were now private soldiers and noncommissioned officers in the big new army. The uniform was the great thing. Rank badges denoted differences of degree, not of kind. So Lieut. Henry Starkley and Private Dick Starkley, together at their little luxurious table for two and later elbow to elbow at the theater, did not cause comment. Immediately after breakfast the next morning Henry rang up the Mayfair number. A voice of inquiring deference, a voice that suggested great circumspection and extreme polish, answered him. Henry asked for Mr. Starkley-Davenport.

"You want the captain, sir," corrected the voice. "Mr. David was killed at Ypres in '14. What name, sir?"

"Starkley," replied Henry.

"Of Canada, sir? Of Beaver Dam? Here is the captain, sir."

Another voice sounded in Henry's ear, asking whether it was Henry Starkley of the sappers on the other end of the line. Henry replied in the affirmative.

"It is Jack Davenport speaking—Starkley-Davenport," continued the voice. "Glad you have my letters at last. Are you at the same hotel? Can you wait there half an hour for me?"

"I'll wait," said Henry.

He and Dick awaited the arrival of the grandson of Richard Starkley with lively curiosity. That he was a captain, and that some one connected with him, perhaps a brother, had been killed at Ypres in 1914, added considerable interest to him in their eyes.

"Size him up before trying any of your old-soldier airs on him, young fellow," warned Henry.

They sat in the lounge of the hotel and kept a sharp watch on everyone who entered by the revolving doors. It was a quiet place, as hotels go in London, but during the half hour of their watching more people than the entire population of Beaver Dam were presented to their scrutiny. At last a pale young fellow in a Panama hat and a gray-flannel suit entered. Under his left shoulder was a crutch and in his right hand a big, rubber-shod stick. His left knee was bent, and his left foot swung clear of the ground. His hands were gloved in gray, and he wore a smoke-blue flower in his buttonhole. Only his necktie was out of tone with the rest of his equipment: it was in stripes of blue and red and yellow. Behind him, close to his elbow, came a thin, elderly man who was dressed in black.

"Lieut. Starkley?" he inquired of the hall porter.

At that Henry and Dick both sprang to their feet and went across to the man in gray. Before they could introduce themselves the young stranger edged himself against his elderly companion, thus making a prop of him, hooked the crook of his stick into a side pocket of his coat, and extended his right hand to Henry. He did it all so swiftly and smoothly that it almost escaped notice; and, pitiful as it was, it almost escaped pity.

"Will you lunch with me—if you have nothing better to do?" he asked. "You're on leave, I know, and it sounds cheek to ask—but I want to talk to you about something rather important."

"Of course—and here is my young brother," said Henry.

The captain shook hands with Dick and then stared at him.

"You are only a boy," he said; and then, seeing the blood mount to Dick's tanned cheeks, he continued, "and all the better for that, perhaps. The nippiest man in my platoon was only nineteen."

"Of course you remember, sir, Mr. David had not attained his twentieth birthday," the elderly man in black reminded him.

"You are right, Wilson," said the captain. "Hit in October, '14. He was my young brother. There were just the two of us. Shall we toddle along? I kept my taxi."

Capt. J. A. Starkley-Davenport occupied three rooms and a bath in his own house, which was a big one in a desirable part of town. The remaining rooms were occupied by his servants. And such servants!

The cook was so poor a performer that whenever the captain had guests for luncheon or dinner she sent out to a big hotel near by for the more important dishes—but her husband had been killed in Flanders, and her three sons were still in the field. Wilson, who had been Jack's father's color sergeant in South Africa, was the valet.

The butler was a one-armed man of forty-five years who had served as a company sergeant major in the early days of the war; in rallying half a dozen survivors of his company he had got his arm in the way of a chunk of high-explosive shell and had decorated his chest with the Distinguished Conduct Medal. He had only the vaguest notions what his duties as butler required of him but occupied his time in arguing the delicate question of seniority with Wilson and the coachman and making frequent reports to the captain.

The coachman, who had served forty years in the navy, most of the time as chief petty officer, claimed seniority of the butler and Wilson on the grounds of belonging to the senior service. But the ex-sergeants argued that the captain's house was as much a bit of the army as brigade headquarters in France, and that the polite thing for any sailorman to do who found a home there was to forget all about seniority; and that for their part they did not believe the British navy was older than the British army.

Captain Starkley-Davenport introduced into this household his cousins from Beaver Dam, without apologies and with only a few words of explanation. In spite of the butler's protests, the valet and the coachman intruded themselves on the luncheon party, pretending to wait on table, but in reality satisfying their curiosity concerning the military gentlemen from Canada whose name was the front half of the captain's name. They paused frequently in their light duties round the table and frankly gave ear to the conversation. Their glances went from face to face with childish eagerness, intent on each speaker in turn. The captain did not mind, for he was accustomed to their ways and their devouring interest in him; Henry was puzzled at first and then amused; and Dick was highly flattered.

"There isn't anyone of our blood in our regiment now, and that is what I particularly want to talk to you chaps about," said the captain, after a little talk on general subjects. "My father and young brother are gone, and the chances are that I won't get back. But the interests of the regiment are still mine—and I want the family to continue to have a stake in it. No use asking you to transfer, Henry, I can see that; you are a sapper and already proved in the field, and I know how sappers feel about their job; but Dick's an infantryman. What d'you say to transfer and promotion, Dick? You can get your commission in one of our new battalions as easy as kiss. It will help you and the old regiment."

"But perhaps I shouldn't make a good officer," replied Dick. "I've never been in action, you know."

"Don't worry about that. I'll answer for your quality. You wouldn't have enlisted if the right stuff wasn't in you."

"But I'd like to prove it, first—although I'd like to be an officer mighty well. That's what I intend to be some day. I think I'll stick to the 26th a while. That would be fairer—and I'd feel better satisfied, if ever I won a commission, to have it in my own outfit. Frank Sacobie would feel sore if I left him, before we'd ever been in France together, to be an officer in another outfit. But there is Peter. He is a corporal already and a mighty good soldier."

He told all about Peter and the queer way he was wounded back in Canada and then all about his friend, Frank Sacobie. The captain and the three attendants listened with interest. The captain asked many questions; and the butler, the valet and the coachman were on the point of doing the same many times.

After luncheon Wilson, the elderly valet, took command gently but firmly and led the captain off to bed. The brothers left the addresses of themselves and Peter with the captain and promised to call at every opportunity and to bring Sacobie to see him at the first chance.

Dick and Frank Sacobie continued their training, and in July Dick got his first stripe. A few members of the battalion went to the hospital, and a few were returned to Canada for one reason or another. In August a little draft of men fresh from Canada came to the battalion.

One of the new men kept inquiring so persistently for Corp. Peter Starkley that in the course of time he was passed along to Dick, who told him about Peter.

"I'm downright sorry to hear that," said the new arrival. "I saw him in Mr. Hammond's store one day and took a shine to him, but as you're his own brother I guess I'm in the right outfit. Hiram Sill is my name."

They shook hands cordially.

"I'm an American citizen and not so young as I used to be," continued Sill, "but the minute this war started I knew I'd be into it before long. Soldiering is a business now, and I am a business man. So it looked to me as if I were needed—as if the energy I was expending in selling boots and shoes for Maddock & Co. would count some if turned against the Kaiser. So I swore an oath to fight King George's enemies, and I guess I've made no mistake in that. King George and Hiram Sill see eye to eye and tooth to tooth in this war like two coons at a watermelon."

In spite of the fact that Mr. Scammell's platoon was already up to strength, Sill worked his way into it.

He had a very good reason for wanting to be in that particular platoon, and there were men already in it who had no particular reason for remaining in it instead of going to some other platoon; so—as Sill very justly remarked to Dick, to Sacobie, to Sergt. Hammer, to Lieut. Scammell and to Capt. Long—he did not see why he could not be where he wanted to be. Friendship for Frank Sacobie and Dick Starkley and admiration for Sergt. Hammer and Lieut. Scammell were the reasons he gave for wanting to be in that platoon.

"He seems a friendly chap," said the adjutant to Mr. Scammell. "Will you take him? If so, you can let the Smith with the red head go over to Number Three, where he will be with a whole grist of lads from his own part of the country. What d'ye say? He looks smart and willing to me."

"Sure I'll take him," said Mr. Scammell. "He says he admires me."

So Hiram Sill became a member of Number Two Platoon. He worked with the energy of a tiger and with the good nature of a lamb. He talked a great deal, but always with a view to acquiring or imparting knowledge. When he found that his military duties and the cultivation of friendships did not use up all his time and energy, he set himself to the task of ascertaining how many Americans were enrolled in the First and Second Canadian divisions. Then indeed he became a busy man; and still his cry continued to be that soldiering was a business.

CHAPTER IV
PRIVATE SILL ACTS

The brigade moved up by way of the fine old city of Saint Omer and the big Flemish town of Hazebrouck. By the fourth day after landing in France the whole brigade was established in the forward area of operations, along with the other brigades of the new division. On the night of the 19th the battalion marched up and went into hutments and billets close behind the Kemmel front. That night, from the hill above their huts, the men from New Brunswick beheld for the first time that fixed, fire-pulsing line beyond which lay the menace of Germany.

The battalion went in under cover of darkness, and by midnight had taken over from the former defenders the headquarters of companies, the dugouts in the support trenches and the sentry posts in the fire trench. There were Dick Starkley and his comrades holding back the Huns from the throat of civilization. It was an amazing and inspiring position to be in for the first time. In front of them, just beneath and behind the soaring and falling star shells and Very lights, crouched the most ruthless and powerful armies of the world.

To the right and left, every now and then, machine guns broke forth in swift, rapping fire. When the fire was from the positions opposite, the bullets snapped in the air like the crackings of a whip. The white stars went up and down. Great guns thumped occasionally; now and then a high shell whined overhead; now and then the burst of an exploding shell sounded before or behind. It was a quiet night; but to the new battalion it was full of thrills. The sentries never took their eyes from the mysterious region beyond their wire. Every blob of blackness beyond their defenses set their pulses racing and sent their hands to their weapons.

Dick Starkley and Frank Sacobie stood shoulder to shoulder on the fire step for hours, staring with all their eyes and listening with all their ears. Hiram Sill sat at their feet and talked about how he felt on this very particular occasion. His friends paid no attention to him.

"This is the proudest moment of my life," he said. "We are historic figures, boys—and that's a thing I never hoped to be. In my humble way, I stand for more than George Washington did. This is a bigger war than George ever dreamed of, and I have a bigger and better reason for fighting the Huns than Gen. Washington ever had for fighting the fool Britishers."

"Did you see that?" asked Dick of Sacobie. "Over in the edge of their wire. There! Look quick now! Is it a man?"

"Looks like a man, but it's been there right along and ain't moved yet," said Frank. "Maybe it's a stump."

Just then Lieut. Scammell came along. He got up on the fire step and, directed by Dick, trained his glass on the black thing in the edge of the enemy's wire. A German star shell gave him light.

"That's a German—a dead one," he said. "I've been told about him. There was a bit of a scrap over there three nights ago, and that is one of the scrappers."

Hiram forgot about Gen. Washington and mounted the fire step to have a look. He borrowed the officer's glass for the purpose.

"Do his friends intend to leave him out there much longer, sir?" he asked. "If they do, it's a sure sign of weakness. They're scart."

"They are scart, right enough—but I bet they wouldn't be if they knew this bit of trench was being held now by a green battalion," replied Mr. Scammell. "They'd be over for identifications if they knew."

"Let them come!" exclaimed Private Sill. "I bet a dollar they wouldn't stay to breakfast—except a few who wouldn't want any."

At that moment a rifle cracked to the right of them, evidently from their own trench and not more than one hundred yards away. It was followed close by a spatter of shots, then the smashing bursts of grenades, more musketry and the rat-tat-tat of several machine guns. Bullets snapped in the air. Lights trailed up from both lines. Dull thumps sounded far away, and then came the whining songs of high-flying shells. Flashes of fire astonished the eye, and crashing reports stunned the ear.

"They're at us!" exclaimed the lieutenant. "Open fire on the parapet opposite, unless you see a better target, and don't leave your posts. Keep low. Better use the loopholes."

He left the fire step and ran along the duck boards toward the heart of the row.

Dick and Frank Sacobie and Hiram Sill, firing rapidly through the loopholes, added what they could to the disturbance. Now and again a bullet rang against the steel plate of a loophole. One or another of them took frequent observations through a periscope, for at that time the Canadian troops were not yet supplied with shrapnel helmets. Dave Hammer, breathless with excitement, joined them for a few seconds.

"They tried to jump us,—must have learned we're a green relief,—but we've chewed them up for fair!" he gasped. "Must have been near a hundred of 'em—but not one got through our wire. Keep yer heads down for a while, boys; they're traversing our top with emmagees."

At last the enemy's artillery fire slackened and died. Ours drubbed away cheerily for another fifteen minutes, then ceased as quick and clean as the snap of a finger. The rifle fire and machine-gun fire dwindled and ceased. Even the up-spurting of the white and watchful stars diminished by half; but now and again one of them from the hostile lines, curving far forward in its downward flight, illuminated a dozen or more motionless black shapes in and in front of our rusty wire. Except for those motionless figures No Man's Land was again deserted. The big rats ran there undisturbed.

Sacobie looked over the parapet; Hiram Sill and Dick sat on the fire step at the Malecite's feet. They felt as tired as if they had been wrestling with strong men for half an hour. Dave Hammer came along the trench and halted before them.

"Those Huns or Fritzes or whatever you call them are crazy," he said. "Did you ever hear of such a fool thing as that? They've left a dozen dead out in front, besides what they carried home along with their wounded—and all they did to us was wound three of our fellows with that first bomb they threw, and two more with machine-gun fire."

"Their officers must be boneheads, for sure," said Hiram. "War's a business,—and a mighty swift one,—and you can't succeed in business without knowing something about psychology. Yes, gentlemen, psychology, queer as it may sound."

"Sounds mighty queer to me!" muttered Sacobie, glancing down.

"You must study men," continued Private Sill, not at all abashed, "their souls and hearts and minds—if you want to make a success at anything except bee farming. Now, take this fool raid of the Huns. They were smart enough to find out that a bunch of greenhorns took over this trench to-night. So they thought they'd surprise us. Now, if they'd known anything about psychology, they'd have known that just because we were new and green we'd all be on our toes to-night, with our eyes sticking out a yard and our ears buttoned right back. Sure! Every man of us was on sentry duty to-night!"

"I guess you've got the right idea, Old Psychology," said the sergeant.

The 26th spent five days in the line on that tour. With the exception of one day and night of rain they had fine weather. They mended their wire and did a fair amount of business in No Man's Land. The enemy attempted no further raids; his last effort had evidently given him more information concerning the quality of the new battalion than he could digest in a week. At any rate he kept very quiet.

At the end of the tour the battalion went back a little way to huts on the bushy flanks of Scherpenberg, where they "rested" by performing squad, platoon and company drill and innumerable fatigues. The time remaining at their disposal was devoted to football and base-ball and investigations of villages and farmsteads in the neighborhood.

Their second tour in was more lively and less comfortable than the first. Under the drench of rain and the gnawing of dank and chilly mists their trenches and all the surrounding landscape were changed from dry earth to mud. Everything in the front line, including their persons, became caked with mud. The duck boards became a chain of slippery traps; and in low trenches they floated like rafts. The parapets slid in and required constant attention; and what the water left undone in the way of destruction the guns across the way tried to finish.

It was hard on the spirit of new troops; they were toughened to severe work and rough living, but not to the deadening mud of a front-line trench in low ground. So their officers planned excitement for them, to keep the fire of interest alive in their hearts. That excitement was obtained in several ways, but always by a move of some sort against the enemy or his defenses. Patrol work was the most popular form of relief from muddy inaction. Lieut. Scammell quickly developed a skill in that and an appetite for it that soon drew the colonel's attention to himself and his followers.

By the end of September, even the medical officers of New Brunswick had to admit that Corp. Peter Starkley was fully recovered from his wound. As for Peter himself, he affirmed that he had not felt anything of it for the past two months. He had worked at the haying and the harvesting on Beaver Dam and his own place without so much as a twinge of pain.

Peter returned to his military duties eagerly, but inspired only by his sense of duty. His heart was more than ever in his own countryside; but despite his natural modesty he knew that he was useful to his king and country as a noncommissioned officer, and with that knowledge he fortified his heart. He tried to tell Vivia Hammond something of what he felt. His words were stumbling and inadequate, but she understood him. And at the last he said:

"Vivia, don't forget me, for I shall be thinking of you always—more than of anyone or anything in the world." And then, not trusting his voice for more, he kissed her hastily.

Vivia wept and made no attempt to hide her tears or the reason for them.

Shortly before Peter's return to the army he had received a letter from Capt. Starkley-Davenport, telling of the reunion of the cousins in London and virtually offering him a commission in the writer's old regiment. Peter had also heard something of the plan from Dick a few days before. He answered the captain's letter promptly and frankly, to the effect that he had no military ambition beyond that of doing his duty to the full extent of his power against Germany, and that a commission in an English regiment was an honor he could accept only if it should come to him unavoidably, in the day's work.

Peter reached England in the third week of October and with three hundred companions fresh from Canada was attached to a reserve battalion on St. Martin's Plain for duty and instruction. Peter was given the acting rank of sergeant. Early in December he crossed to France and reached his battalion without accident. He found that the 26th had experienced its full share of the fortunes and misfortunes of war. Scores of familiar faces were gone. His old platoon had suffered many changes since he had left it in St. John a year ago. Its commander, a Lieut. Smith, was an entire stranger to him, and he had known the platoon sergeant as a private. Mr. Scammell was now scout officer and expecting his third star at any moment. Dave Hammer, still a sergeant, and Dick, Sacobie and Hiram Sill also were scouts. Dick, was a corporal now and had never been touched by shot, shell or sickness. Sacobie had been slightly wounded and had been away at a field ambulance for a week.

Peter rejoined his old platoon and, as it was largely composed at this time of new troops, was permitted to retain his acting rank of sergeant. He performed his duties so satisfactorily that he was confirmed in his rank after his first tour in the trenches.

On the third night of Peter's second tour in the front line, Dave Hammer, Dick and Frank Sacobie took him out to show him about. All carried bombs, and Sergt. Hammer had a pistol as well. They were hoping to surprise a party of Germans at work mending their wire.

Hammer slipped over the parapet. Peter followed him. Dick and Sacobie went over together, quick as the wink of an eye. Their faces and hands were black. With Dave Hammer in the lead, Peter at the very soles of his spiked boots and Dick and Sacobie elbow to elbow behind Peter, they crawled out through their own wire by the way of an intricate channel. When a star shell went up in front, near enough to light that particular area, they lay motionless. They went forward during the brief periods of darkness and half light.

At last they got near enough to the German wire to see it plainly, and the leader changed his course to the left. When they lay perfectly still they could hear many faint, vague sounds in every direction: far, dull thuds before and behind them, spatters of rifle fire far off to the right and left, the bang of a Very pistol somewhere behind a parapet and now and then the crash of a bursting shell.

A few minutes later Dave twisted about and laid a hand on Peter's shoulder. He gave it a gentle pull. Peter crawled up abreast of him. Dave put his lips to Peter's ear and whispered:

"There they are."

A twisty movement of his right foot had already signaled the same information to the veterans in the rear. Peter stared at the blotches of darkness that Dave had indicated. They did not move often or quickly and kept close to the ground. Sometimes, when a light was up, they became motionless and instantly melted from view, merging into the shadows of the night and the tangled wire. Now and then Peter heard some faint sound of their labor, as they worked at the wire.

"Only five of them," whispered the scout sergeant. "They are scared blue. Bet their skunks of officers had to kick them out of the trench. Let's sheer off a few yards and give 'em something to be scared about."

Just then Dick and Frank squirmed up beside them.

"Some more straight ahead of us," breathed the Indian. "Three or four."

Hammer used his glass and saw that Sacobie's eyes had not fooled him. He touched each of his companions to assure himself of their attention, then twisted sharp to the left, back toward their own line, and crawled away. They followed. After he had covered about ten yards, Dave turned end for end in his muddy trail, and the others came up to him and turned beside him. They saw that the wiring party and the patrol had joined.

"Spread a bit," whispered Dave. "I'll chuck one at 'em, and when it busts you fellows let fly and then beat it back for the hole in our wire. Take cover if the emmagees get busy. I'll be right behind you."

They moved a few paces to the right and left. Peter's lips felt dry, and he wanted to sneeze. He took a plump, cold, heavy little grenade in his muddy right hand. A few breathless, slow seconds passed and then smash! went Dave's bomb over against the Hun wire. Then Peter stood up and threw—and three bombs exploded like one.

Turning, Peter slithered along on all fours after Dick and Sacobie. The startled Huns lighted up their front as if for a national fête; but Peter chanced it and kept on going. A shrapnel shell exploded overhead with a terrific sound, and the fat bullets spattered in the mud all round him. He came to another and larger crater and was about to skirt it when a familiar voice exclaimed:

"Come in here, you idiot!"

There was Dick and Frank Sacobie standing hip-deep in the mud and water at the bottom of the hole. Peter joined them with a few bushels of mud. A whiz-bang whizzed and banged red near-by, and the three ducked and knocked their heads together. The water was bitterly cold.

"Did you think you were on your way to the barns to milk?" asked Dick. "Don't you know the machine guns are combing the ground?"

"I'll remember," said Peter. "New work to me, and I guess I was a bit flustered. I wonder where Dave Hammer has got himself to."

"Some hole or other, sure," said Sacobie. "Don't worry 'bout Dave. He put three bombs into them. I counted the busts. Fritz will quiet down in a few minutes, I guess, and let us out of here—if our fellows don't get gay and start all the artillery shootin' off."

Our fellows did not get gay, our artillery refrained from shooting off, and soon the enemy ceased his frenzied musketry and machine gunning and bombing of his own wire and the harmless mud beyond. So Peter and Dick and Sacobie left their wet retreat and crawled for home. They found Sergt. Hammer waiting for them at the hole in the wire. He had already given the word to the sentry; and so they made the passage of the wire and popped into the trench. Hammer reported to Mr. Scammell, who was all ready to go out with another patrol; and then the four went back to their dugout in the support trench, devoured a mess of potatoes and onions, drank a few mugs of tea and retired to their blankets, mud and putties and all.

That was the night of the 3d of December. In the battalion's summary of intelligence to the brigade it read like this:

"Night of 23d-24th, our patrols active. Small patrol of four, under 106254 Sgt. D. Hammer, encountered ten of the enemy in front of the German wire. Bombs were exchanged and six of the enemy were killed or wounded. Our patrol returned. 2.30 a. m. Lieut. Scammell placed tube in hostile wire which exploded successfully. No casualties."

The next day passed quietly, with a pale glimmer of sunshine now and then, and between glimmers a flurry of moist snow. The Germans shouted friendly messages across No Man's Land and suggested a complete cessation of hostilities for the day and the morrow. The Canadians replied that the next Fritz who cut any "love-your-enemy" capers on the parapet would get what he deserved.

"Peace on earth!" exclaimed the colonel of the 26th. "They are the people to ask for it, the murderers! No, this is a war with a reason—and we shoot on Christmas Eve just as quick as on any other day."

The day passed quietly. Soon after sunset Mr. Scammell sent two of his scouts out to watch the gap in the German wire that he had blown with his explosive tube. They returned at ten o'clock and reported that the enemy had made no attempt to mend the gap. The night was misty and the enemy's illumination a little above normal.

At eleven o'clock Lieut. Scammell went out himself, accompanied by Lieut. Harvey and nine men. They reached the gap in the enemy wire without being discovered, and there they separated. Mr. Harvey and two others moved along the front of the wire to the left, and a sergeant and one man went to the right. Mr. Scammell and his five men passed through the wire and extended a few yards to the left, close under the hostile parapet.

The officer stood up, close against the wet sandbags. Dave Hammer, Dick, Peter, Hiram Sill and Sacobie followed his example.

Then, all together, they tossed six bombs into the trench. The shattering bangs of six more blended with the bangs of the first volley. From right and left along the trench sounded other explosions.

Obeying their officer's instructions, Scammell's men made the return journey through the wire and struck out for home at top speed, trusting to the mist to hide their movements from the foe.

Scammell rid himself of three more bombs and then followed his party. The white mist swallowed them. The bombers ran, stumbled and ran again, eager to reach the shelter of their own parapet before the shaken enemy should recover and begin sweeping the ground with his machine guns.

Sacobie and Dick were the first to get into the trench. Then came Sergt. Hammer and Lieut. Scammell, followed close by Lieut. Harvey and his party. By that time the German machine guns were going full blast.

"Are Sergt. Starkley and Private Sill here?"

"Don't see either of 'em, sir," Sergt. Hammer said in reply to Mr. Scammell's question.

"Perhaps they got here before any of us and beat it for their dugout," said Mr. Scammell. "Dick, you go along the trench and have a look for them. If they aren't in, come back and report to me. Wait right here for me, mind you—on this side of the parapet. Get that?"

Then the officer spoke a few hurried words to Sergt. Hammer, a few to the sentry, and went over the sandbags like a snake. Hammer went out of the trench at the same moment; and Frank Sacobie took one glance at the sentry and followed Hammer like a shadow. The mist lay close and cold and almost as wet as rain over that puddled waste.

Mr. Scammell found Peter and Hiram about ten yards in front of the gap in our wire; the private was unhurt and the sergeant unconscious. Sill had his tall friend on his back and was crawling laboriously homeward.

"Whiz-bang," he informed Mr. Scammell. "It got Pete bad, in the leg. I heard him grunt and soon found him."

They regained the trench, picking up Hammer on the way, and sent Peter out on a stretcher. Sacobie came in at their heels; and no one knew that he had gone out to the rescue.

That happened on Christmas morning. Before night the doctors cut off what little had been left below the knee of Peter's right leg.

CHAPTER V
PETER'S ROOM IS AGAIN OCCUPIED

He awoke suddenly very early one morning and heard his wife sobbing quietly. That had happened several times before, and sometimes she had been asleep and at other times awake. Now she was asleep, lonely for her boys even in her dreams. He thought of waking her; and then he reflected that, if awake, she would hide her tears, which now perhaps were giving her some comfort in her dreams.

But he could not find his own sleep again. He lighted a candle, put on a few clothes and went downstairs to the sitting room. There were books everywhere, of all sorts, in that comfortable and shabby room. The brown wooden clock on the shelf above the old Franklin stove ticked drearily. It marked ten minutes past two. Mr. Starkley dipped into a volume of Charles Lever and wondered why he had ever laughed at its impossible anecdotes and pasteboard love scenes. He tried a report of the New Brunswick Agricultural Society and found that equally dry. A flyleaf of Treasure Island held his attention, for on it was penned in a round hand, "Flora with Dick's love, Christmas, 1914."

"He was only a boy then," murmured the father. "Less than a year ago he was only a boy, and now he is a man, knowing hate and horror and fatigue—a man fighting for his life. They are all boys! Henry and Peter—Peter with his grand farm and fast mares, and his eyes like Connie's."

John Starkley got out of his chair, trembling as if with cold. He walked round the room, clasping his hands before him. Then he took the candle from the table and held it up to the shelf above the stove. There stood photographs of his boys, in uniform. He held the little flame close to each photograph in turn.

"Three sons," he said. "Three good sons—and not one here now!"

A cautious rat-tat on the glass of one of the windows brought him out of his reveries with a start. He went to the window without a moment's hesitation, held the candle high and saw a face looking in at him that he did not recognize for a moment. It was a frightened and shamed face. The eyes met his for a fraction of a second and then shifted their glance.

"James Hammond!" exclaimed Mr. Starkley. "Of all people!"

He set the candle on the table and pushed up the lower sash of the window, letting in a gust of cold wind that extinguished the light behind him. He could see the bulk of his untimely visitor against the vague starlight.

"Come in, James," he said. "By the window or the door, as you like."

"Thank you, Mr. Starkley," said Hammond in guarded tones. "The window will do. No strangers about, I suppose? Just the family?"

"Only my wife and daughters," replied the farmer, and turned to relight the candle.

Jim Hammond got quickly across the sill, pulled the sash down, and after it the green-linen shade. He stood near the wall, twirling his hat in his hand and shuffling his feet. When Mr. Starkley turned to him, he swallowed hard, glanced up and then as swiftly down again.

"Queer time to make a call," said Hammond at last. "Near three o'clock, Mr. Starkley. I was glad to see your light at the window. I was scared to tap on the window, at first, for fear you'd send me away."

"Send you away?" queried the farmer. "Why did you fear that, Jim? You, or any other friend, are welcome at this house at any hour of the day or night. But I must admit that your visit has taken me by surprise. I thought you were far away from this peaceful and lonely country, my boy—far away in Flanders."

The blood flushed over Jim's face, and he stared at the farmer.

"You thought I was in Flanders," he said. "In Flanders—me! So you don't know about me, Mr. Starkley? Peter didn't tell you about me? That—that's impossible. Don't you know—and every one else?"

"I don't know what you are talking about," replied Mr. Starkley, as he pushed Jim into an armchair. "I can see that you are tired, however, and in distress of some sort. Why are you here, Jim—and why are you not in uniform? Tell me—and if I can help you in any way you may be sure that I will. Rest here and I'll get you something to eat. I did not notice at first how bad you look, Jim."

"Never mind the food!" muttered young Hammond. "I'm not hungry, sir—not to matter, that is. But I'm dog-tired. I've been hiding about in the woods and in people's barns for a long time—and walking miles and miles. I—you say you don't know—I am a deserter—and worse."

"You didn't go to France with your regiment? You deserted?"

"I didn't go anywhere with it. Why didn't Peter tell you? I came home on pass—and gave them the slip. I—Peter was sent here to fetch me back. And he didn't tell you! And you thought I was in France! I came here because I was ashamed to go home."

He suddenly leaned forward in his chair, with his elbows on his knees, and covered his face with his hands. His shoulders shook. John Starkley continued to gaze at him in silence for a minute or two, far too amazed and upset and bewildered to know what to say or do. He felt a great pity for the young man, whom he had always known as a prosperous and self-confident person. To see him thus—shabby, weary, ashamed and reduced to tears—was a most pitiful thing. A deserter! A coward! But even so, who was he to judge? Might not his sons have been like this, except for the mercy of God? Even now any one of his boys, or all three of them, might be in great need of help and kindness. He went over and laid a hand gently on his visitor's shoulder.

"I don't know what you have done, exactly, or anything at all of your reason for doing it, but you are the son of a friend of mine and have been a comrade of one of my sons," he said. "Look upon me as a friend, Jim. You say you are a deserter. Well, I heard you. It is bad—but here is my hand."

Jim Hammond raised his head and looked at Mr. Starkley with a tear-stained face.

"Do you mean that?" he asked; and at the other's nod he grasped the extended hand.

Mr. Starkley asked him no more questions then, but brought cold ham from the pantry and cider from the cellar and ate and drank with him. The visitor's way with the food and drink told its own story and sharpened the farmer's pity. They went upstairs on tiptoe.

"This is Peter's room," said Mr. Starkley. "Sleep sound and as long as you please—till dinner time, if you like. And don't worry, Jim."

The farmer returned to his own room and found his wife sleeping quietly. He wakened her and told her of young Hammond's visit and all that he knew of his story.

"I am glad you took him in," she said. "We must help him for our boys' sakes, even if he is a deserter."

"Yes," answered Mr. Starkley, "we must help him through his shame and trouble—and then he may right the other matter of his own free will. We'll give him a chance, anyway."

It was dinner time when Jim Hammond awoke from his sleep of physical and nervous exhaustion. He was puzzled to know where he was at first, but the memory of the night's adventure came to him, bringing both shame and relief. He had no watch to tell him the time, and there was no clock in the room. He had brought nothing with him—not a watch, or a dollar, or a shirt—nothing except his guilt and his shame. He flinched at the thought of meeting Mrs. Starkley and the girls.

A knock sounded on the door, and John Starkley looked in and wished him good morning. "If you get up now, Jim, you'll be in time for dinner," he said. "Here is hot water and a shaving kit—and a few duds of Henry's and Peter's you can use if you care to. Set your mind at rest about the family, Jim. I have told my wife all that I know myself, and she feels as I do. As for the girls—well, I will let them know as much as is necessary. We mean to help you to get on your feet again, Jim."

The deserter shaved with care, dressed in his own seedy garments and went slowly downstairs. He entered the kitchen. Mrs. Starkley and Flora were there, busy about the midday dinner. They looked up at him and smiled as he appeared in the doorway, but their eyes and Flora's quick change of color told him of the quality of their pity. They would feel the same, he knew, for any broken and drunken tramp in the ditch. But he was a more despicable thing than a drunken tramp. He was a deserter, a coward. They knew that of him, for he saw it in their eyes that tried to be so frank and kind; and that was not the worst of him. He could not advance from the threshold or meet their glances again.

Mrs. Starkley went to the young man quickly and, taking his hand in hers, drew him into the room. Flora came forward and gave him her hand and said she was glad to see him; and then Emma came in from the dining room and said, "Hello, Mr. Hammond! I hope you can stay here a long time; we are very lonely."

His heart was so shaken by those words that his tongue was suddenly loosened. He looked desperately, imploringly round, and his face went red as fire and then white as paper.

"I'll stay—if you'll let me—until I pick up my nerve again," he said quickly and unsteadily. "Keep me hidden here from Stanley and my folks. I'll work like a nigger. I am a deserter, as you all know—and I know that Peter didn't tell you so. I'd do anything for him, after that. I'm a runaway soldier, but it wasn't because I was afraid to fight. I'll show you as soon as I'm fit—I'll go and fight. It was my beastly temper and drink that did for me. I've been near crazy since. But I'll show you my gratitude some day—if you give me a chance now to work round to feeling something like a man again."

Flora and Emma were tongue-tied by the stress of their emotions. They could only gaze at their guest with tear-dimmed eyes. But Mrs. Starkley went close to him and put a hand on each of his drooped shoulders.

"Of course, my dear boy," she said. "You are only a boy, Jim, a year or two younger than Henry, I think. Trust us to help you."

During dinner they talked about the country, the war, the weather and the stock—about almost everything but Jim Hammond's affairs.

"What do you want me to do this afternoon?" asked Jim when the meal was over. "I don't know much about farm work, but I can use an axe and can handle horses."

"I was ploughing this morning; and this may be our last day before the frost sets in hard," said Mr. Starkley. "What about hitching Peter's mares to a second plow?"

"Suit me fine," said Jim.

It was a still, bright October afternoon, with a glow in the sunshine, a smell of fern and leaf in the air and a veil of blue mist on the farther hills. Frosts had nipped the surface of things lightly a score of times but had not yet struck deep. Jim Hammond, in a pair of Peter's long-legged boots, guided a long plough behind Peter's black and sorrel mares. The mares pulled steadily, and the bright plough cut smoothly through the sod of the old meadow. Over against the fir woods on the far side of the meadow John Starkley went back and forth behind his grays.

Jim rested frequently at the end of a furrow, for he was not in the pink of condition. He noticed, for the first time in his life, the faint perfume of the turned loam and torn grass roots. He liked it. His furrows, a little uneven at first, became straighter and more even until they were soon almost perfect.

As the red sun was sinking toward the western forests, Emma appeared, climbing over the rail fence from a grove of young red maples. She carried something under one arm. She waved a hand to her father but came straight to Jim. He stopped the mares midway the furrow.

"I made these gingernuts myself," said Emma, holding out an uncovered tin box to him. "See, they are still hot. Have some."

He accepted two and found them very good. The girl looked over his work admiringly and told him she had never seen straighter furrows except a few of Peter's ploughing. Then she warned him that in half an hour she would blow a horn for him to stop and went across to her father with what was left of the gingernuts. Hammond went on unwinding the old sod into straight furrows until the horn blew from the house.

After supper he played cribbage with Mr. Starkley; and that night he slept soundly and without dreaming. He awoke early enough to do his share of the feeding and milking before breakfast. The ploughs worked again that day, but the next night brought a frost that held tight.

The days went by peacefully for Jim Hammond. He never went on the highway or away from Beaver Dam and Peter's place. Sometimes, when people came to the house, he sat by himself in his room upstairs. He did his share of all the barn work, twice a week helped Mrs. Starkley and the girls with the churning and cut cordwood and fence rails every day. He never talked much, but at times his manner was almost cheerful. And so the days passed and October ran into November. Snow came and letters from France and England. The family treated him like one of themselves, with never a question to embarrass him or a word to hurt him. He heard news of his family occasionally, but never tried to see them.

"They think I am somewhere in the States, hiding—or that's what father thinks," he said to Flora. "Some day I'll write to mother—from France."

December came and Christmas. Jim kept house that day while the others drove to Stanley and attended the Christmas service in the church on the top of the long hill. A week later a man in a coonskin coat drove up to the kitchen door. Jim recognized him through the window as the postmaster of Stanley and retired up the back stairs. John Starkley, who had just come in from the barns, opened the door.

"A cablegram for you, Mr. Starkley," said the postmaster. "It was wired through from Fredericton."

He held out the thin envelope. Mr. Starkley stared at it, but did not move. His eyes narrowed, and his face looked suddenly old.

"No call to be afraid of it," said the postmaster, who was also the telegraph operator. "I received it and know what's in it."

Mr. Starkley took it then and tore it open.

"Peter wounded. Doing fine. Dick Starkley" is what he read. He sighed with relief and called to Mrs. Starkley and the girls. Then he invited the man from Stanley in to dinner, saying he would see to the horse in a minute.

"You can't expect much better news than that from men in France," John Starkley said to his wife. "Wounded and doing fine—why, that's better than no news, by a long shot. He will be safe out of the line now for weeks, perhaps for months. Perhaps he will even get to England. He is safe at this very minute, anyway."

He excused himself, went upstairs and told Jim Hammond the news.

"That is twice for Peter already," he said, "once right at home and once in Flanders. If this one isn't any worse than the first, we have nothing to worry about."

"I hope it is just bad enough to give him a good long rest," said Jim in a low voice.

The postmaster stayed to dinner, and Emma smuggled roast beef and pudding up to Jim in his bedroom. No sooner had that visitor gone than another drove up. This other was Vivia Hammond; and once more Jim retired to his room. Vivia had heard of the cablegram, but nothing of its import. Her face was white with anxiety.

"What is it?" she cried. "The cable—what is it about?"

"Peter is right as rain—wounded but doing fine," said John.

Vivia cried and then laughed.

"I love Peter, and I don't care who knows it!" she exclaimed. "I hope he has lost a leg, so they'll have to send him home. That sounds dreadful—but I love him so—and what does a leg matter?" She turned to Mrs. Starkley. "Did he ever tell you he loved me?" she asked.

"He didn't have to tell us," answered Mrs. Starkley, smiling.

"He does! He does!" exclaimed the girl, and then began to cry again; and Jim, imprisoned upstairs, wished she would go home.