et any one have it, they pluck it
and squash it between their fingers."

CHAPTER XXIII. THE WISDOM OF FATHER S----

One day, while I was making some sketch-book drawings of bursting shells
down in the old water-course, the Roman Catholic padre came along.

"Sketching, Hargrave?"

"Yes, sir."

And then: "I suppose you're Church of England, aren't you?"

"No, sir; I'm down as Quaker."

"Quaker, eh?--that's interesting; I know quite a lot of Quakers in
Dublin and Belfast."

Who would expect to find "Father Brown" of G. K. Chesterton fame in a
khaki drill uniform and a pith helmet?

A small, energetic man, with a round face and a habit of putting his
hands deep into the patch pockets of his tunic. Here was a priest who
knew his people, who was a real "father" to his khaki followers. I
quickly discovered him to be a man of learning, and one who noticed
small signs and commonplace details.

His eyes twinkled and glittered when he was amused, and his little round
face wrinkled into wreaths of smiles.

When we moved to the Salt Lake dug-outs he came with us, and here he had
a dug-out of his own.

When the day's work was finished, and the moonlight glittered white
across the Salt Lake, I used to stroll away for a time by myself before
turning in.

It was a good time to think. Everything was so silent. Even my own
footsteps were soundless in the soft sand. It was on one of these
night-prowls that I spotted the tiny figure of Father S--- jerking
across the sands, with that well-known energetic walk, stick in hand.

"Stars, Hargrave?" said the little priest.

"Very clear to-night, sir."

"Queer, you know, Hargrave, to think that those same old stars have
looked down all these ages; same old stars which looked down on Darius
and his Persians."

He prodded the sand with his walking stick, stuck his cap on one side (I
don't think he cared for his helmet), and peered up to the star-spangled
sky.

"Wonderful country, all this," said the padre; "it may be across this
very Salt Lake that the armies of the ancients fought with sling and
stone and spear; St. Paul may have put in here, he was well acquainted
with these parts--Lemnos and all round about--preaching and teaching on
his travels, you know."

"Talking about Lemnos Island," he went on, "did you notice the series of
peaks which run across it in a line?"

"Yes."

"Well, it was on those promontories that Agamemnon, King of Mycenx, lit
a chain of f