with a great
and kindly peace. Slowly the gentle voice took up the tale anew:

"We made ut, bhoy--th' Post--or nigh tu ut . . . in th' break av th'
dawn. . . . For wan av th' dogs yapped an' they come out an' found us in
th' snow. . . . Yorkey, wid his arrums round th' neck av me--as if he
wud shtill dhrag me on . . . . an' cryin' upon th' mother that bore
um. . . . Tu men--in damned bad shape--tu shtiffs . . . . an' but three
dogs lift out av th' six-team we'd shtarted wid. . . . So--now ye know;
lad! . . . Fwhat think ye? . . ."

What George thought was: "Greater love hath no man than this." What he
said was: "He's an Englishman, isn't he?"

Slavin nodded. "Comes of a mighty good family tu, they say, but 'tis
little he iwer cracks on himself 'bout thim. Years back he hild a
commission in some cavalry reg'mint in Injia, but he got broke--over a
woman, I fancy. He's knocked about th' wurrld quite a piece since thin.
Eyah! he talks av some quare parts he's been in. Fwhat doin'? Lord
knows. Been up an' down the ladder some in _this_ outfit--sarjint one
week--full buck private next. Yen know th' way these ginthlemin-rankers
run amuck?"

"How does he get away with it every time?" queried Redmond. "Hasn't any
civilian ever reported him to the old man?"

"Yes! wance--an' 'Father,' th' ould rapparee! he went for me baldheaded
for not reporthin' ut tu."

With a sort of miserable heartiness Slavin cursed awhile at the
recollection. "Toime an' again," he resumed, "have I taken my hands tu
um--pleaded wid um, an' shielded um in many a dhirty scrape, an' ivry
toime sez he, wid his ginthlemin's shmile: 'Burke! will ye thry an'
overlook it, ould man?' . . . Eyah! he's mighty quare. For some rayson
he seems tu hate th' idea av a third man bein' here, tho' th' man' wud
die for me. Divil a man can I kape here, anyway. In fwhat fashion he
puts th' wind up 'him, I do not know; they will not talk, out av pure
kindness av heart an' rispict for meself, I guess. But--a few days here,
an' bingo!--they apply for thransfer. Now ye know ivrythin', bhoy--fwhat
I am up against, an' fwhy I will not 'can' Yorkey. Ye've a face that
begets thrust--do not bethray ut, but thry an' hilp me. Bear wid Yorke
as best ye can--divilmint an' all--for my sake, will yeh?"

Not devoid of a certain simple dignity was the grim, rugged face that
turned appealingly to the younger man's in the light of the moon.

And Redmond, smiling ins