erances that I began to feel as if I had won the Victoria
Cross myself.

Presently Sir Anthony bustled out of the Town Hall, pink, brisk, full
of business. At the august appearance of the Mayor my less civically
distinguished friends departed. His eyes brightened as they fell on me
and he shook hands vigorously.

"My dear Duncan, I was just on my way to you. Only heard this morning
that you've been seedy. Knocked up, I suppose, by your journey to town.
Just heard of that, too. Must have thought me a brute not to enquire.
But Edith and I didn't know. I was away all yesterday. These infernal
tribunals. With the example of men like Leonard Boyce before their
eyes, it makes one sick to look at able-bodied young Englishmen trying
to wriggle out of their duty to the country. Well, dear old chap, how
are you?"

I assured him that I had recovered from Cliffe and was in my usual
state of health. He rubbed his hands.

"That's good. Now give me all the news. What is Boyce's condition? When
will he be able to be moved? When do you think he'll come back to
Wellingsford?"

At this series of questions I pricked a curious ear.

"Am I speaking to the man or the Mayor?"

"The Mayor," said he. "I wish to goodness I could get you inside, so
that you and I and Winterbotham could talk things over."

Winterbotham was the Town Clerk. Sir Anthony cast an instinctive glance
at his chauffeur, a little withered elderly man. I laughed and made a
sign of dissent. When you have to be carried about, you shy at the
prospect of little withered, elderly men as carriers. Besides--

"Unless it would lower Winterbotham's dignity or give him a cold in the
head," said I, "why shouldn't he come out here?"

Sir Anthony crossed the pavement briskly, gave a message to the
doorkeeper of the Town Hall, and returned to Hosea and myself.

"It's a dreadful thing. Dreadful. I never realised till yesterday, when
I read his record, what a distinguished soldier he was. A modern
Bayard. For the last year or so he seemed to put my back up. Behaved in
rather a curious way, never came near the house where once he was
always welcome, and when I asked him to dinner he turned me down flat.
But that's all over. Sometimes one has these pettifogging personal
vanities. The best thing is to be heartily ashamed of 'em like an
honest man, and throw 'em out in the dung-heap where they belong.
That's what I told Edith last night, and she agreed with me. Don't you?"

I smil