and talked. And as they talked, Rutherford kept looking at Hollister's
face, until Hollister at last said to him:

"Doesn't it give you the willies to look at me?"

Rutherford shook his head.

"Oh, no. I've got used to seeing fellows all twisted out of shape. You
seem to be fit enough otherwise."

"I am," Hollister said moodily. "But it's a devil of a handicap to
have a mug like this."

"Makes people shy off, eh? Women particularly. I can imagine,"
Rutherford drawled. "Tough luck, all right. People don't take very
much stock in fellows that got smashed. Not much of a premium on
disfigured heroes these days."

Hollister laughed harshly.

"No. We're at a discount. We're duds."

For half an hour they chatted more or less one-sidedly. Rutherford had
a grievance which he took pains to air. He was on duty at Hastings
Park, having been sent there a year earlier to instruct recruits,
after recovering from a wound. He was the military man par excellence.
War was his game. He had been anxious to go to Siberia with the
Canadian contingent which had just departed. And the High Command had
retained him here to assist in the inglorious routine of
demobilization. Rutherford was disgruntled. Siberia had promised new