hat into the Bolshevist ring, ready for the old thing, war--war against
the enemies of civilisation and his own enemies, against those
who possessed things which he very much desired but which for some
inexplicable cause he was prevented from obtaining.

The former class, to a greater or less degree, Jack Maitland
represented; the latter, Tony Perrotte. From their war experience they
were now knit together in bonds that ran into life issues. Together
they had faced war's ultimate horror, together they had emerged with
imperishable memories of sheer heroic manhood mutually revealed in hours
of desperate need.

At Jack's request Tony had been given the position of a Junior Foreman
in one of the planing mill departments, with the promise of advancement.

"You can have anything you are fit for, Tony, in any of the mills. I
feel that I owe you, that we both owe you more than we can pay by any
position we can offer," was Grant Maitland's word.

"Mr. Maitland, neither you nor Jack owes me anything. Jack has paid, and
more than once, all he owed me. But," with a rueful smile, "don't expect
too much from me in this job. I can't see myself making it go."

"Give it a big try. Do your best. I ask no more," said Mr. Maitland.

"My best? That's a hard thing. Give me a bayonet and set some Huns
before me, and I'll do my best. This is different somehow."

"Different, yet the same. The same qualities make for success. You have
the brains and with your gift for machinery--Well, try it. You and Jack