e all too obvious, and an open
confession of weakness. John Cameron was never at any time a coward.

His firm lips set a trifle more sternly than usual, his handsome head was
held high with fine military bearing. He came forward without faltering
for even so much as the fraction of a waver. There was not a flicker in
his eyes set straight ahead. One would never have known from his looks
that he recognized the oncoming man, or had so much as realized that an
officer was approaching, yet his brain was doing some rapid calculation.
He had said in his heart if not openly that he would never salute this
man. He had many times in their home town openly passed him without
salute because he had absolutely no respect for him, and felt that he
owed it to his sense of the fitness of things not to give him deference,
but that was a different matter from camp. He knew that Wainwright was in
a position to do him injury, and no longer stood in fear of a good
thrashing from him as at home, because here he could easily have the
offender put in the guard house and disgraced forever. Nothing, of
course, would delight him more than thus to humiliate his sworn enemy.
Yet Cameron walked on knowing that he had resolved not to salute him.

It was not merely pride in his own superiority. It was contempt for the
nature of the man, for his low contemptible plots and tricks, and cunning
ways, for his entire lack of principle, and his utter selfishness and
heartlessness, that made Cameron feel justified in his attitude toward
Wainwright. "He is nothing but a Hun at heart," he told himself bitterly.

But the tables were turned. Wainwright was no longer in his home town
where his detestable pranks had goaded many of his neighbors and
fellowtownsmen into a cordial hatred of him. He was in a great military
camp, vested with a certain amount of authority, with the right to report
those under him; who in turn could not retaliate by telling what they
knew of him because it was a court-martial offense for a private to
report an officer. Well, naturally the United States was not supposed to
have put men in authority who needed reporting. Cameron, of course,
realized that these things had to be in order to maintain military
discipline. But it was inevitable that some unworthy ones should creep
in, and Wainwright was surely one of those unworthy ones. He would not
bend to him, officer, or no officer. What did he care what happened to
himself? Who was there t