s old job was
waiting for him. His mother and sister had enough to live on, but if
he had been working he could have helped them in a way to afford him
great satisfaction.

"Holt, listen," finally said Lane, with more earnestness. "We're
friends--all boys of the service are friends. We might even become
great pards, if we had time."

"What's time got to do with it?" queried the younger man. "I'm sure
I'd like it--and know it'd help me."

"I'm shot to pieces, Holt.... I won't last long...."

"Aw, Lane, don't say that!"

"It's true. And if I'm to help you at all it must be now.... You
haven't told me everything, boy--now have you?"

Holt dropped his head.

"I'll say--I haven't," he replied, haltingly. "Lane--the trouble
is--I'm clean gone on Margie Maynard. But her mother hates the sight
of me. She won't stand for me."

"Oho! So that's it?" ejaculated Lane, a light breaking in upon him.
"Well, I'll be darned. It _is_ serious, Holt.... Does Margie love
you?"

"Sure she does. We've always cared. Don't you remember how Margie and
I and Dal and you used to go to school together? And come home
together? And play on Saturdays?... Ever since then!... But lately
Margie and I are--we got--pretty badly mixed up."

"Yes, I remember those days," replied Lane, dreamily, and suddenly he
recalled Dal's dark eyes, somehow haunting. He had to make an effort
to get back to the issue at hand.

"If Margie loves you--why it's all right. Go back to work and marry
her."

"Lane, it can't be all right. Mrs. Maynard has handed me the mitt,"
replied Holt, bitterly. "And Margie hasn't the courage to run off with
me.... Her mother is throwing Margie at Swann--because he's rich."

"Oh Lord, no--Holt--you can't mean _it_!" exclaimed Lane, aghast.

"I'll say I do mean it. I _know_ it," returned Holt, moodily. "So I
let go--fell into the dumps--didn't care a d---- what became of me."

Lane was genuinely shocked. What a tangle he had fallen upon! Once
again there seemed to confront him a colossal Juggernaut, a moving,
crushing, intangible thing, beyond his power to cope with.

"Now, what can I do?" queried Holt, in sudden hope his friend might
see a way out.

Despairingly, Lane racked his brain for some word of advice or
assurance, if not of solution. But he found none. Then his spirit
mounted, and with it passion.

"Holt, don't be a miserable coward," he began, in fierce scorn.
"You're a soldier, man, and you've got your life to