"Go it is," said Duff. "Right about turn. Good luck, Kavanagh, damn you.

I see you have got a good sergeant there."

"Who? McDowell? None better. You couldn't beat him, eh?" said the colonel with a grin.

The sergeant stood at attention, with a wooden face.

"He's the kind of man they want in the front lines," said Duff. "The devil himself couldn't break through where he is."

"That's why I have him. Good luck. Good-bye!"

Throughout the night they marched, now and then receiving a lift from a ranch wagon, and in the grey of the morning, weary, hungry, but resolute for a place in the Wapiti company, they made the village.

Early as it was, Barry found his father astir, with breakfast in readiness.

"Hello, boy!" cried his father running to him with outstretched hands.

"Hello, dad!" answered Barry. His father threw a searching glance over his son's face as he shook his hand warmly.

"Not a word, Barry, until you eat. Not a word. Go get ready for your bath. I'll have it for you in a minute. No, not one word. Quick. March.

That is the only word these days. As you eat I'll give you the news."

Resolutely he refused to talk until he saw his son begin upon his breakfast. Then he poured forth a stream of news. The whole country was aflame with war enthusiasm. Alberta had offered half a million bushels of oats for the imperial army, and a thousand horses or more. The Calgary district had recruited two thousand men, the Edmonton district as many more. All over Canada, from Vancouver to Halifax, it was the same.

From the Wapiti district twenty-six ranchers, furnishing their own horses, had already gone. Ewen Innes was in Edmonton. His brother Malcolm was in uniform, too, and his young brother Jim was keen to enlist. Neil Fraser was busy raising a company of Wapiti men. Young Pickles and McCann had joined up as buglers.

And so the stream flowed, Barry listening with grave face but making no response.

"And I'm glad you're back, my boy. I'm glad you're back," said his father, clapping him on the shoulder.

The rest of the meal was eaten in silence. They were having each his own thoughts, and for the first time in their life together, they kept their thoughts to themselves.

"You're going to your office, Dad," said Barry, when they had cleared away, and set the house in order.

"No, the office is closed, and will be for some time, I imagine. I'm busy with Neil Fraser. I'm acting paymaster, quartermaster, recruiting sergeant, and half a dozen other things."

"I'll go down with you," said Barry, as his father rose to go.

His father came back to him, put his hands on his shoulders, and said:

"Barry, I want you to go to bed."

"Nonsense, dad. I'm all right. I'm going downtown with you."

"Barry," said his father, "we have hard times before us, and you must be fit. I ask you to go to bed and sleep there this forenoon. You're half asleep now. This afternoon we shall face up to our job."

His father's voice was quietly authoritative and Barry yielded.

"All right, dad. I'll do as you say, and this afternoon--well, we'll see."

At the noonday meal they were conscious of a mutual restraint. For the first time in their lives they were not opening to each other their innermost souls. The experience was as distressing as it was unusual.

The father, as if in dread of silence, was obviously exerting himself to keep a stream of talk flowing. Barry was listening with a face very grave and very unlike the bright and buoyant face he usually carried.

They avoided each other's eyes, and paid little heed to their food.

At length Barry pushed back his chair.

"Will you excuse me, dad," he said. "I think I shall step out a moment into the garden."

"Do, Barry," said his father, in obvious relief. "You are fagged out, my boy."

"Thanks, dad. I am a bit played out."

"And take it easy this afternoon, Barry. To-night you will tell me about your trip, and--and--we'll have a talk."

"Good old dad!" said Barry. "You do understand a chap. See you later, then," he called back as he passed through the door.

His father sat gazing before him for some moments with a deep shadow on his face.

"There is something wrong with that boy," he said to himself. "I wish I knew what it was."

He set his house in order, moving heavily as if a sudden weight of years had fallen upon his shoulders, and took his way slowly down the street.

"I wonder what it is," he mused, refusing to give form to a horrible thought that hovered like a spectre about the windows of his soul.

The first glance at his son's face at the time of the evening meal made his heart sing within him.

"He's all right again! He's all right!" he said to himself jubilantly.

"Hello, dad," cried Barry, as his father entered the room. "Supper's just ready. How do you feel, eh?"

"Better, my boy--first rate, I mean. I'm properly hungry. You're rested, I can see."

"I'm all right, dad! I'm all right!" cried Barry, in his old cheery way.

"Dad, I want to apologise to you. I wasn't myself to-day, but now I'm all right again. Dad, I've joined up. I'm a soldier now," he said with a smile on his face, but with anxious eyes turned on his father.

"Joined up!" echoed his father. "Barry, you have enlisted! Thank God, my boy. I feared--I thought--No, damned if I did!" he added, with such an unusual burst of passion that Barry could only gaze at him with astonishment.

"Forgive me, my boy," he said, coming forward with outstretched hand.

"For a moment I confess I thought--" Again he paused, apparently unable to continue.

"You thought, dad," cried Barry, "and--forgive me, dad--I thought too. I ought to have known you better."

"And I, you, my son."

They shook hands with each other in an ecstasy of jubilation.

"My God, I'm glad that's through," said the older man. "We were both fools, Barry, but thank God that horror is past. Now tell me all about everything--your trip, your plans. Let's have a good talk as we always do."

"Come on then, dad," cried Barry. "Let's have an eat first. By Jove, I feel a thousand years younger. I go to the M. O. to-morrow for an examination."