smiled: he merely looked at her- and beyond.

A khaki figure elbowed his way through the crowd and stood panting at the busy end of the counter.

'Say! but it's mortal dry in the pay office. Can you give me a drink right away?'

'Yes,' I said. 'What do you want?' 'Anything, I reckon, so long as it's

wet.'

I turned to a fellow worker. 'What shall I give him?' I asked. "Try him with a "stone ginger," she said. 'It never fails.'

She was quite right. He finished it in one breath, and, as he laid the twopence on the counter, he said dramatically, 'Guess you've saved my life.' And, being wise in his generation, he was off like a streak, for there were penalties attaching to being A.W.L. from the pay office in working hours.

That was why staff men and cripples were always served first in our canteen: the cripples because they should not be kept waiting, and the staff men because they should not want to they often did.

but

'Are you in a hurry?' I asked one of those regimentally employed.

'In a hurry! Bet your sweet life I'm not. No, sir! not on a dollar ten a day.' At which the other men laughed in agreement, and also at my sex being again mistaken.

It often happened that a man would be relating something, and, carried away by the recital, he'd say, addressing me, 'And boy, oh boy! but you would have laughed.' A roar of laughter would interrupt him, and the narrator would push back his cap and say apologetically: 'Beg your pardon, Sister, but danged if I can remember.' Whereupon there would be another laugh. 'Shut up, you guys!' (this in an audible aside). 'Guess she understands all right.'

"That so, Sister?' and he turned to

me.

'Quite, I laughed; the fact being that since I went to that wonderful camp I was never sure myself which I

was.

Just then an officer, arrayed in a disreputable-looking trench coat, blew in. The coat had obviously seen service, and on his head was a khaki cap, pulled slightly over one eye. To look at him you would have guessed some time before you guessed right. He was the Canadian R.C. chaplain.

'All correct, Sister?' he asked as he strolled behind the counter.

Hastily gathering together my knowledge of the Canadian tongue, I answered demurely:

'I guess, Major, we 're jakerloo!'

'Reckon you 're getting on fine with the language,' he said. 'You shure are.'

'I've been taking lessons,' I said in explanation, while I went on serving a man at the other side of the counter. The khaki figure passed along, taking no further notice of me or of anyone else.

That was the best of the padre. He never did take much notice of anybody. And he was entirely unconscious of effects. If the spirit moved him to do a thing, he did it, and you could think what you liked. He never explained his actions; on the contrary, his actions explained him.

Just now the spirit was apparently moving him, for I became aware that he was whistling softly with an air of abstraction, and as he whistled he did a little step-dance, all to himself, behind the counter.

Then, looking up, he suddenly espied some particular figure who had just come in, and immediately his interest crystallized in that one man.

'Say, artilleryman!' (The man addressed wheeled round). 'Have n't I

seen you before?' A quick pause, in which he concentrated his mind. 'Yes. Reckon you were with the -th battalion at Gee! but it was a God

forsaken hole!'

him: adjutant, quartermaster-the whole outfit, I reckon.'

Whereupon my heart sank, for at that moment I could see various cigarette wrappings on the floor, and dead

wounded man.

'Remember that corner house all knocked to pieces? And the rats!'

'Gee whizz! reckon I do,' said the other.

'Will you ever forget that day in March just before we went over? The Heines were flinging over any old thing, from the kitchen range to a cricket ball. Heavens to Betsey! but I guess it was a picnic all right!'

And the major and the private became absorbed in war talk; both were back in the trenches.

Presently more men drifted up and joined the circle. And now and again a man would appear from nowhere and grip the padre's hand.

'Say, Major, but I guess it's good to see you again. It shure is!' And the hand-grip would not relax.

Then the major would look at him and say: 'Guess the last time I saw you was the night before Vimy Ridge. Gee, boys; will you ever forget?' And again the group would become immersed in talk, exchanging notes or relating some grim joke from the trenches; and always that M.C. major was the live wire in the group.

There was a boy standing near me who had been watching that group in silence, and as he put down his cup he said quietly: 'I'm not an R.C. myself, but I reckon' (and with a gesture he indicated the padre) that there's a man the boys would die for.'

I was still serving out coffee full steam ahead when the corporal in charge of the kitchen stood beside me. 'Beg pardon, Sister. O.C. on inspection.' Then lowering his voice, he said unofficially: 'And a big bunch with

strewn about things that the inspection party always looked for, and generally found things for which I, as head of the hut, was held responsible.

It was quite true. The inspection party were there in massed formation, a brace of sergeants acting as supports in the rear. They were six to one, and it did not seem to give that one a sporting chance. However, putting a brave face on it, I advanced to meet the invaders, whereupon I was greeted with six salutes and four good-mornings (front rank only).

Overtopping the other men stood the O.C. He had a firm-set jaw, and a moustache with waxed ends that turned up stiffly and looked somehow as if they were standing at attention. He had heavy level brows that made you feel a little afraid, and a pair of eyes that nothing escaped. It was a stern face the face of a disciplinarian. And it was only when the corners of his mouth twitched into a smile that a twinkle dawned in his eye, and you found yourself thanking heaven that, whatever this man's defects, he had the saving sense of humor. For, in spite of his chin, the O.C. was a sport. As for the other officers who were with him -. But I have no time for them, as at this moment the O.C. could be heard saying in his most businesslike voice: 'Any complaints?'

Before replying I looked along the counter, where my fellow workers were working as busily as bees (and I thought how nice they looked, too, in their white veils and pale blue overalls). 'Do we look as if we had any?' I asked gently.

'I reckon you look all right,' ad

mitted the O.C., 'but things are not always what they seem.'

"They are here,' I said. 'No complaints at this side of the counter.' And I looked hard at that O.C.

'Got home,' murmured the quartermaster. 'Reckon that's one to you, sir.' And they all laughed.

'Have you all the help you want?' went on the O.C. 'Fatigues come regularly? If you want more, you've only to say so, and I reckon the adjutant —

'Sure,' said the tall adjutant, with that characteristic smile of his. 'All you've got to do is to send along an orderly with a chit

Here the quartermaster broke in, afraid of being left out of the competition. The quartermaster always looked sardonic, but was rather a wag in disguise.

'And, of course,' he said, with a whimsical wave of his hand, 'the quartermaster's stores are entirely at your disposal.' And the insincerity of the man was so patent that he had the grace to laugh with us.

The inspection party were about to take their leave when fate plucked at the colonel's sleeve. It was only then he saw the untidy floor.

'Guess it's strange,' he said musingly, as he reviewed the offending bits, 'strange that when the boys have a nice place like this they would not take a pride in keeping it tidy.'

There was a horrid pause, during which I tried to make up my mind as to the best line of defense.

'Well, Colonel,' I said, hastily deciding that any defense was better than none, 'this is the way I look at it. You can't have everything. If those boys were always picking up their cigarette ends and keeping the daily papers neatly folded they'd make excellent housemaids, but poor soldiers.'

Then said the O.C. grimly: 'I

reckon these boys must be damn fine soldiers!' And laughing heartily, the party saluted again and went their

way.

Meanwhile the work of the hut never slackened: the clatter of cups and saucers still resounded, and the click of ivory balls came from the billiard room, while the piano rang out relentlessly. The sound of army boots tapping on the floor suggested that a 'buck and wing' dance was in progress. Over the heads of the crowd a khaki cap bobbed up and down, and under it was a black face. An American coon was giving an exhibition to a select but wrapt audience.

It

So the work went on. It was all very kaleidoscopic; men coming and going, groups forming and reforming, orderlies hurrying to and fro, and over it all the low murmur of men's voices. was curious how quiet those hundreds of soldiers were. No voice was ever unduly raised. They might have been in their own homes.

And it was a cosmopolitan crowd, so many nationalities being enrolled under the banner of the Maple Leaf.

Here was a darky from the West Indies, very shiny and nicely blacked. A Jap or two sat at the next table. There were a handful of half-breeds further along, and several quiet-eyed Red Indians, whose khaki caps seemed a poor substitute for their native feathers. There was a Mohammedan from Syria, and a brace of coons from the states. There was a handsome Greek from the Archipelago, and a Czecho-Slovak (from Winnipeg). There were Russians, who laughed when their English proved inadequate, and clear-eyed Danes, whose forbears sailed the seas when Vikings commanded the galleys. There were Swedes and Roumanians and swarthy Italians. There was a Spaniard from Spain and an other from the Argentine, and French

men from France, who consorted but ill with their French-Canadian second cousins.

Close to the counter there stood a fierce-looking Sicilian brigand, who, just then, was explaining to the padre about the altercation he had had with a Britisher, and how the devil was urging him to kill the Britisher; and in his endeavor to ward off the wiles of the Evil One he crossed himself continually. And lo! while he was making the sign for the tenth time, the Britisher had knocked him down.

The brigand even now was indignant; but whether his indignation was inspired by the crass British ignorance which failed to grasp the lofty motive for his passivity, or whether he resented the scurvy trick that Heaven had played him, I do not know. Anyway, he had a black eye, and he spoke excitedly, flinging all his fingers in the air.

Apart from these, there were Americans by the score, men from North and South: some who wanted you to know that they were Yankees, others who blazed if you thought they were.

And in addition to these types there were Britishers from every nook and corner of the four kingdoms.

Lastly came the Canadians proper, men from East and West, genuine sons of Our Lady of the Snows. Of these there were trappers from the Hudson River territory, and men of the Northwest Police. There were lumberjacks from Labrador way, and daredevils from the western camps. There were diggers from Alaska and the Yukon; and backwoodsmen from New Brunswick. There were ice peddlers from the city and cow-punchers from the ranch. There were business men, C.P.R. chefs, medical students, university professors, philanthropists, actors, lawyers, ministers of religion, and I know not who else men of all creeds and

VOL. 17-NO. 839

It is related of Congreve that in his later years he affected a disdain for his own works, and expressed annoyance when they were praised. Voltaire, visiting England, began in his innocence to congratulate the old dandy on being the only English comedy writer who could touch the skirts of Molière. Congreve replied that The Way of the World and Love for Love were only the diversions of an idle youth, and begged his visitor to think of him only as a private gentleman. The retort was prompt. 'I could have met a gentleman,' said Voltaire, 'without leaving France.'

This precise form of foppery is no longer met with, but many clever men are still afflicted with the weakness of which it was one manifestation. They are contemptuous of their strong sides, and ludicrously proud of qualities which, at the best, they share with a crowd. Born songsters pride themselves on their economics; good romancers talk bad politics; popular preachers slop about in the morasses of Higher Criticism; men with illimitable fairy tales in them argue on Socialism or the price of coal; budding Romneys deviate into all the various lunacies which end in 'ism' and (one hopes) in bankruptcy.

But perhaps the most remarkable

case is that of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. A genuine craftsman, having found his precise medium, having achieved a success as complete as it was deserved, finds no happiness therein, thinks contemptuously of the happiness his art has brought to others, and turns with a sense of vocation to - it is difficult politely to specify what. He is not, of course, to be blamed for refusing to repeat himself to his life's end, like Nat Gould and others. He is said to have become so weary of Sherlock Holmes that he murdered the great detective with glee and resurrected him with extreme repugnance. All that is understandable; some tinge of the same feeling may have affected the most admiring reader. Toujours perdrix must be as monotonous for the cook as for the diner. But it is curious that an artist so considerable in the one special line never managed to strike out another fitting his peculiar gift.

Sir Arthur's incursions into historical romance cannot be called very successful. His Micah Clark is really a very bad kind of prig, D'Artagnan with a snuffle; The White Company is far from good company; Brigadier Gerard is too patently an Englishman who shrugs his shoulders and says 'Parly-voo!' Nor can it be honestly said that Sir Arthur shines as historian or controversialist; for neither part has he the temper nor the judgment. He is, indeed, a rather singular example of the very limited man impatient of his limits, and always wanting, like his own Dr. Watson, to be trying another person's job. Dr. Watson was not a shining success, but his patients did not seem to complain, as Sir Arthur's readers must sometimes do.

What can now be the feelings of those readers over the latest vagaries of their old favorite? One can imagine the devout Doylist wringing his hands over every fresh appearance of

Sir Arthur in the character of an exponent of spiritualism. For Sir Arthur the spiritualist makes cruel war on the great legend of the perfect detective. The peculiar charm of Sherlock Holmes is common sense penetrated with glamour; it is the romance of the ultraprosaic. If Watson were a shade less commonplace, if the criminals were only a trifle more out-of-the-way, if the Anglo-Indian in The Sign of Four lived in a house less hideously real than the yellow-bricked villa at Brixton, the spell would cease to act. As things are, we are constantly hovering on the verge of skepticism and anti-climax when the requisite touch of natural stupidity or commonness assures us that it is all real, that we are veritably there in the frowsy suburban garden or the dusty attic, watching with Watson's own bewilderment the seeming irrelevances of the great consulting detective, or sharing his prejudice against the perky cocksureness of the regular man from Scotland Yard. Sherlock Holmes would be incredible if he ever deviated by a hair's-breadth from his line of inference from observation, if coincidence ever came to his help, if (in short) he were not always merely the personification of common sense, while Watson, his foil, is the personification of common stupidity.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, in his new character, is the exact opposite of his creation. Instead of common sense penetrated with glamour, we have here the wildest mysticism tamed down and vulgarized by a dreadful ordinariness. In the detective stories we do feel with a shudder that No. 10 Endymion Terrace, with its smug suburban front and its bow-window with an india rubber plant in a ten-and-sixpenny vase, is authentically one with Tophet; in the spiritualistic expositions we are made to feel that Paradise is very like, say, the Hampstead Garden Suburb, full