asually at
his entrance; then, each vouchsafing him a preoccupied salutory mumble,
they bent to their furbishing with the brisk concentration peculiar to
"Service men" the world over. As an accompaniment to their labours, in
desultory fashion, they kept alive the embers of a facetious wrangling
argument--their respective vocabularies, albeit more or less ensanguined,
exhibiting a fluent and masterly range of quaint barrack-room idiom and
invective.

Both were clad in brown duck "fatigue slacks," the rolled-up sleeves of
their "gray-back" shirts disclosing the fact that the sinewy forearms of
both men were decorated with gay and fanciful specimens of the tattoo
artist's genius. A third man, similarly habited, lay stretched out,
apparently sleeping on one of the cots that were arranged around the
room. Opening his eyes he greeted the newcomer with a lethargic "'Lo,
Redmond!"; then, turning over on his side, he relapsed once more into the
arms of Morpheus--his nasal organ proclaiming that fact beyond doubt.

The orderly aspect of the room bore mute evidence of regimental
discipline. The blankets--with the sheets placed in the centre--were
strapped into a neat roll at the head of each tartan-rugged cot, at the
foot of which lay a folded black oil-sheet. Above, on a small shelf,
were the spare uniform and Stetson hat, flanked on either side by a pair
of high brown "Strathcona" riding-boots, with straight-shanked
"cavalry-jack" spurs attached. On pegs underneath hung the regulation
side-arms,--a "Sam Browne" belt and holster containing the Colt's .45
Service revolver. A rifle-rack at the end of the room contained its
quota of Winchester carbines.

The last arrival, whom the sleeper had designated "Redmond," proceeded to
divest himself of his short fur coat and, after dashing the snow from it
and his muskrat-faced cap, unbuckled his side-arms, and hung all up at
the head of his own particular cot.

Flashing across our retrospective mind-screens, as at times we dreamily
delve into the past, beloved faces come and go. Forever in the memory of
the writer, as his ideal conception of healthy, virile splendid Youth
personified, will stand the bronzed, debonair, clean-shaven young face of
George Redmond--or "Reddy," as he was more familiarly dubbed by his
comrades of L. Division.

Handsome his countenance could not have been termed--the features were
too strongly-marked and roughly-hewn. But it was an undeniably open,