ack the next
night with his horse. Anyway no one ever begrudged him his title after
that. And here was Shelley Vane Plunkett, who had been carefully raised
on fruits and cereals, taking up with such a nauseous character as a
social equal.

Arline had the sheriff out at once for her darling, but Shelley got word
and beat it farther. He finally got to Seattle, where he found various
jobs, and kept his mother guessing for three years. He was afraid she'd
make him start the curls again if he come home. But finally, when he was
eighteen, he did come, on her solemn promise to behave. But he was no
longer the angel-faced darling that had left, and he still expected at
least one fight a day, though no longer wearing what would cause fights.
He'd formed the habit and just couldn't leave off. A body could hardly
look at him without starting something unpleasant. He was round like a
barrel now, and tough and quick, and when anything did happen to be
started he was the one that finished it. Also, he'd have his hair cut
close every five or six days. He always looked like a prisoner that had
started to let it grow about a week before he left the institution.
Shelley was taking no chances, and he used to get a strange, glittering
look in his eye when he regarded little Keats, his baby brother, who was
now coming on with golden curls just as beautiful as Shelley's had ever
been. But he done nothing sinister.

In time he might of settled down and become a useful citizen, but right
then the war broke out, so no more citizen stuff for Shelley. It was
almost too good to be true that he could go to a country where fighting
was legal; not only that, but they'd give him board and lodging and a
little spending money for doing the only thing he'd ever learned to do
well. It sure looked like heaven. So off he went to Canada and enlisted
and got sent across and had three years of perfect bliss, getting changed
over to our Army when we finally got unneutral so you could tell it.

Of course his mother was almost more anguished about his going to war
than about having his curls fixed with the sheep shears. She said even
if he wasn't shot he would be sure to contract light habits in France,
consisting of native wine and dancing, and so forth, and she hoped at
least he could be a drummer boy or something safe.

But Shelley never had a safe moment, I guess. No such thing as a quiet
sector where he was. He fought at the Front, and then he'd fight at