ure was fastened safely on the dial, it was the Major, who
was something of an artist, who got out his color-kit and delicately
tinted the lovely features until the cut-out snapshot looked rare and
lovely as a portrait painted right on the watch. Then he carefully
fastened the crystal, and Frank slipped it on his wrist, more than
pleased.

"In old times," said the Major, washing his brushes in the tumbler of
water, "the knights always wore a ribbon or a glove belonging to the
lady they loved the best. They did not hide their keepsakes in their
inside pockets but bound them boldly on their helmets, to remind
themselves that they must be loyal, faithful, fearless, brave and true
for her sake, and to show all who cared to look that they were proud to
do their best for one so fair. No doubt there were dark days and hard
times when they needed every ounce of support and encouragement they
could get.

"You will find it so, old man. I can't help you, but," he gently touched
the watch, "_she_ will, always. You know it, don't you?"

"Yes, sir, I do!" said Bill, looking down on the smiling face.

"Then you don't need another word from me, son," said the Major. They
were alone. He bent and kissed the boy on the cheek. Then he smiled.

"That is allowable between men, you know, son, on the eve of battle. Put
up a good fight." He left the room, and something that was part promise
and part prayer went up from his soul.

"I _will_ put up a good fight!" he whispered.

Frank had spent his last evening alone, a throng of distressful thoughts
crowding in on him. His father was on some official business in town and
his mother had not thought it necessary to break her weekly engagement
with her bridge club. Frank wandered over to the hangars but he missed
Lem and Chauncey and soon returned home. He was greatly excited over the
coming trip, and had other and most serious reasons for wishing to go
away. So many unpleasant thoughts crowded upon him that it was not until
ten o'clock that he happened to think of his watch, still in Lawton at
the pawnshop. He had not redeemed it, and the twenty-five dollars
reposed in the bottom of his kit bag, in an envelope that had thread
wound around it.

He reflected that he could send the money and his ticket back to the
pawnshop man, for it was too late to take the trip to town. His parents
were apt to return at any time. They did not come very soon, however,
and Frank went to bed, a lonely, unhapp