ight more than that before we got through with it. Anyway, he
was off to-morrow.

"To-morrow?" echoed the Dean.

Burford, who was handing him potatoes, arched his eyebrows in alarm.
He was fond of Oliver.

"With Chipmunk."

Burford uttered an unheard sigh of relief.

"We're going to enlist in King Edward's Horse. They're our kind.
Overseas men. Lots of 'em what you dear good people would call bad
eggs. There you make the mistake. Perhaps they mayn't be fresh enough
raw for a dainty palate--but for cooking, good hard cooking, by gosh!
nothing can touch 'em."

"You talk of enlisting, dear," said Mrs. Conover. "Does that mean as a
private soldier?"

"Yes--a trooper. Why not?"

"You're a gentleman, dear. And gentlemen in the Army are officers."

"Not now, my dear Sophia," said the Dean. "Gentlemen are crowding into
the ranks. They are setting a noble example."

They argued it out in their gentle old-fashioned way. The Dean quoted
examples of sons of family who had served as privates in the South
African War.

"And that to this," said he, "is but an eddy to a maelstrom."

"Come and join us, James Marmaduke," said Oliver across the table.
"Chipmunk and me. Three 'sworn brothers to France.'"

Doggie smiled easily. "I'm afraid I can't undertake to swear a
fraternal affection for Chipmunk. He and I would have neither habits
nor ideals in common."

Oliver turned to Peggy. "I wish," said he, with rare restraint, "he
wouldn't talk like a book on deportment."

"Marmaduke talks the language of civilization," laughed Peggy. "He's
not a savage like you."

"Don't you jolly well wish he was!" said Oliver.

Peggy flushed. "No, I don't!" she declared.

The Dean being called away on business immediately after dinner, the
young men were left alone in the dining-room when the ladies had
departed. Oliver poured himself out a glass of port and filled his
pipe--an inelegant proceeding of which Doggie disapproved. A pipe
alone was barbaric, a pipe with old port was criminal. He held his
peace however.

"James Marmaduke," said Oliver, after a while, "what are you going to
do?" Much as Marmaduke disliked the name of "Doggie," he winced under
the irony of the new appellation.

"I don't see that I'm called upon to do anything," he replied.

Oliver smoked and sipped his port. "I don't want to hurt your feelings
any more," said he gravely, "though sometimes I'd like to scrag you--I
suppose because you're so different from m