under way. On the shaded side piazza of the ranch house I could discern
my hostess, Mrs. Lysander John Pettengill; she sat erect, even in a
rocking-chair, and knitted. On the kitchen steps, full in the westering
sun, sat the Chinese chef of the Arrowhead, and knitted--a yellow,
smoothly running automaton. On a shaded bench by the spring house, a
plaid golfing cap pushed back from one-half the amazing area of his bare
pate, sat the aged chore-boy, Boogles, and knitted. The ranch was on a
war basis.

And more: As I came abreast of the bunk house the Sabbath calm was
punctured by the tart and careless speech of Sandy Sawtelle, a top rider
of the Arrowhead, for he, too, was knitting, or had been. On a stool
outside the doorway he held up an unfinished thing before his grieved
eyes and devoutly wished it in the place of punishment of the wicked
dead. The sincere passion of his tones not only arrested my steps but
lured through the open doorway the languorous and yawning Buck Devine,
who hung over the worker with disrespectful attention. I joined the pair.
To Buck's query, voiced in a key of feigned mirth, Sandy said with simple
dignity that it was going to be a darned good sweater for the boys in the
trenches. Mr. Devine offered to bet his head that it wasn't going to be
anything at all--at least nothing any one would want round a trench. Mr.
Sawtelle ignored the wager and asked me if I knew how to do this here,
now, casting off. I did not.

"I better sneak round and ask the Chink," said Sandy. "He's the star
knitter on the place."

We walked on together, seemingly deaf to certain laboured pleasantries of
Mr. Devine concerning a red-headed cow-puncher that had got rejected for
fighting because his feet was flat and would now most likely get rejected