ey reported to the Inspector.
He sat at a desk and listened dryly to their story. Not till they had
finished did he make any comment.

"You'll have a week's furlough to recuperate, Constable Beresford.
After that report to the Writing-on-Stone detachment for orders.
Here's a voucher for your pay, Special Constable Morse. I'll say
to you both that it was a difficult job well done." He hesitated a
moment, then proceeded to free his mind. "As for this Roman triumph
business--victory procession with prisoners chained to your chariot
wheels--quite unnecessary, I call it."

Beresford explained, smilingly. "We really couldn't help it, sir. They
were bound to make a Roman holiday out of us whether we wanted to or
not. You know how excitable the French are. Had to have their little
frolic out of it."

"Not the way the Mounted does business. You know that, Beresford.
We don't want any fuss and feathers--any fol-de-rol--this
mironton-ton-ton stuff. Damn it, sir, you liked it. I could see you
eat it up. D'you s'pose I haven't eyes in my head?"

The veneer of sobriety Beresford imposed on his countenance refused to
stay put.

MacLean fumed on. "Hmp! Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre, eh? Very
pretty. Very romantic, no doubt. But damned sentimental tommyrot, just
the same."

"Yes, sir," agreed the constable, barking into a cough just in time to
cut off a laugh.

"Get out!" ordered the Inspector, and there was the glimmer of a
friendly smile in his own eyes. "And I'll expect you both to dine with
me to-night. Six o'clock sharp. I'll hear that wonderful story in more
detail. And take care of yourself, Beresford. You don't look strong
yet. I'll make that week two or three if necessary."

"Thank you, sir."

"Hmp! Don't thank me. Earned it, didn't you? What are you hanging
around for? Get out!"

Constable Beresford had his revenge. As he passed the window,
Inspector MacLean heard him singing. The words that drifted to the
commissioned office! were familiar.

"Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre,
Mironton-ton-ton, mirontaine."

MacLean smiled at the irrepressible youngster. Like most people, he
responded to the charm of Winthrop Beresford. He could forgive him a
touch of debonair impudence if necessary.

It happened that his heart was just now very warm toward both these
young fellows. They had come through hell and had upheld the best
traditions of the Force. Between the lines of the story they had told
he gathered that the