"No, sir; I'm down as Quaker."

"Quaker, eh?--that's interesting; I know quite a lot of Quakers in
Dublin and Belfast."

Who would expect to find "Father Brown" of G. K. Chesterton fame in a
khaki drill uniform and a pith helmet?

A small, energetic man, with a round face and a habit of putting his
hands deep into the patch pockets of his tunic. Here was a priest who
knew his people, who was a real "father" to his khaki followers. I
quickly discovered him to be a man of learning, and one who noticed
small signs and commonplace details.

His eyes twinkled and glittered when he was amused, and his little
round face wrinkled into wreaths of smiles.

When we moved to the Salt Lake dug-outs he came with us, and here he
had a dug-out of his own.

When the day's work was finished, and the moonlight glittered white
across the Salt Lake, I used to stroll away for a time by myself
before turning in.

It was a good time to think. Everything was so silent. Even my own
footsteps were soundless in the soft sand. It was on one of these
night-prowls that I spotted the tiny figure of Father S--- jerking
across the sands, with that well-known energetic walk, stick in hand.

"Stars, Hargrave?" said the little priest.