"Discipline!" snorted the major. "By Gad, it was a piece of the most damnable cheek I have ever heard at a mess table. He ought to be sent to Coventry. I only hope the O. C. will get him exchanged."

The major made no effort to subdue his voice, which was plainly audible throughout the room.

"Hush, for God's sake," warned Captain Train, as Barry entered the door.

"Here he is."

But Barry had caught the major's words. For a moment he stood irresolute; then walked quietly toward the group.

"I couldn't help hearing you, Major Bustead," he said, in a voice pleasant and under perfect control. "I gather you were referring to me."

"I was, sir," said the major defiantly.

"And why should I be sent to Coventry, or exchanged, may I ask?" Barry's voice was that of an interested outsider.

"Because," stuttered the Major, "I consider, sir, that--that--you have been guilty of a piece of damnable impertinence toward your Commanding Officer. I never heard anything like it in my life. Infernal cheek, I call it, sir."

While the major was speaking, Barry stood listening with an air of respectful attention.

"I wonder!" he said, after a moment's thought. "If I thought I had been impertinent, I should at once apologise. But, sir, do you think it is part of my duty to allow any man, even my Commanding Officer, to--pardon the disgusting metaphor, it is not so disgusting as the action complained of--to spit in my soup, and take it without protest? Do you, sir?"

"I--you--" The major grew very red in the face. "You need to learn your place in this battalion, sir."

"I do," said Barry, still preserving his quiet voice and manner. "I want to learn--I am really anxious to learn it. Do you mind answering my question?" His tone was that of a man who is earnestly but quite respectfully seeking information from a superior officer.

"Your question, sir?" stuttered the major, "your--your--question. Damn your question, and yourself too."

The major turned abruptly away. Barry heard him quite unmoved, stood looking after him in silence a moment or two, then, shaking his head, with a puzzled expression on his face, moved slowly away from the group.

"Oh, my aunt Caroline," breathed Sally into his friend Hopeton's ear, resting heavily meanwhile against his shoulder. "What a score! What a score!"

"A bull, begad! a clean bull!" murmured Hopeton, supporting his friend out of the room as he added, "A little fresh air, as a preventative of vertigo, as the old doc says, eh, Sally."

"Good Lord, is he just a plain ass, or what?" inquired young Booth, his eye following Barry down the room.

"Ass! A mule, I should say. And one with a good lot of kick in him,"

replied Captain Train. "I don't know that I care for that kind of an animal, though."

Before many hours had passed, the whole battalion had received with undiluted joy an account of the incident, for though the Commanding Officer was popular with his men, to have him called down at his own mess by one of his own officers was an event too thrilling to give anything but unalloyed delight to those who had to suffer in silence similar indignities at the hands of their officers.

A notable exception in the battalion, however, was Sergeant Major McFetteridge, who, because of his military experience, and of his reputation as a disciplinarian, had been recently transferred to the battalion. To the sergeant major this act of Barry's was but another and more flagrant example of his fondness for "buttin' in," and the sergeant major let it be known that he strongly condemned the chaplain for what he declared was an unheard of breach of military discipline.

Of course there were others who openly approved, and who admired the chaplain's "nerve in standing up to the old man." In their opinion he was entirely justified in what he had said. The O. C. had insulted him, and every officer at the mess, by his off-colour story, but on the whole the general result of the incident was that Barry's life became more and more one of isolation from both officers and men. For this reason and because of a haunting sense of failure the months of training preceding the battalion's departure for England were for Barry one long and almost uninterrupted misery. It seemed impossible to establish any point of contact with either the officers or the men. In their athletics, in their social gatherings, in their reading, he was quietly ignored and made to feel that he was in no way necessary. An impalpable but very real barrier prevented his near approach to those whom he was so eager to serve.

This unexpressed opposition was quickened into active hostility by the chaplain's uncompromising attitude on the liquor question. By the army regulations, the battalion canteen was dry, but in spite of this many, both of the officers and the men, freely indulged in the use of intoxicating drink. The effect upon discipline was, of course, deplorable, and in his public addresses as well as private conversation, Barry constantly denounced these demoralising habits, winning thereby the violent dislike of those especially affected, and the latent hostility of the majority of the men who agreed with the sergeant major in resenting the chaplain's "buttin' in."

It was, therefore, with unspeakable joy that Barry learned that the battalion was warned for overseas service. Any change in his lot would be an improvement, for he was convinced that he had reached the limit of wretchedness in the exercise of his duty as chaplain of the battalion.

In this conviction, however, he was mistaken. On shipboard, he discovered that there were still depths of misery which he was called upon to plumb. Assigned to a miserable stateroom in an uncomfortable part of the ship, he suffered horribly from seasickness, and for the first half of the voyage lay foodless and spiritless in his bunk, indifferent to his environment or to his fate. His sole friend was his batman, Harry Hobbs, but, of course, he could not confide to Harry the misery of his body, or the deeper misery of his soul.

It was Harry, however, that brought relief, for it was he that called the M. O. to his officer's bedside. The M. O. was shocked to find the chaplain in a state of extreme physical weakness, and mental depression.

At once, he gave orders that Barry should be removed to his own stateroom, which was large and airy and open to the sea breezes. The effect was immediately apparent, for the change of room, and more especially the touch of human sympathy, did much to restore Barry to his normal health and spirits. A friendship sprang up between the M. O.

and the chaplain. With this friendship a new interest came into Barry's life, and with surprising rapidity he regained both his physical and mental tone.

The doctor took him resolutely in hand, pressed him to take his part in the daily physical drill, induced him to share the daily programme of sports, and, best of all, discovering a violin on board, insisted on his taking a place on the musical programme rendered nightly in the salon.

As might be expected, his violin won him friends among all of the music lovers on board ship, and life for Barry began once more to be bearable.

Returning strength, however, recalled him to the performance of his duties as chaplain, and straightway in the exercise of what he considered his duty, he came into conflict with no less a personage than the sergeant major himself. The trouble arose over his batman, Harry Hobbs.

Harry was a man who, in his youthful days, had been a diligent patron of the London music halls, and in consequence had become himself an amateur entertainer of very considerable ability. His sailor's hornpipes, Irish jigs, his old English North-country ballads and his coster songs were an unending joy to his comrades. Their gratitude and admiration took forms that proved poor Harry's undoing, and besides some of them took an unholy joy in sending the chaplain's batman to his officer incapable of service.

Barry's indignation and grief were beyond words. He dealt faithfully with the erring Hobbs, as his minister, as his officer, as chaplain, but the downward drag of his environment proved too great for his batman's powers of resistance. Once and again Barry sought the aid of the sergeant major to rescue Harry from his downward course, but the old sergeant major was unimpressed with the account of Harry's lapses.

"Is your batman unfit for duty, sir?" he inquired.

"Yes, he is, often," said Barry indignantly.

"Did you report him, sir?" inquired the sergeant major.

"No, I did not."

"Then, sir, I am afraid that until you do your duty I can do nothing,"

answered the sergeant major, with suave respect.

"If you did your duty," Barry was moved to say, "then Hobbs would not need to be reported. The regulations governing that canteen should prevent these frequent examples of drunkenness, which are a disgrace to the battalion."

"Do I understand, sir," inquired the sergeant major, with quiet respect, "that you are accusing me of a failure in duty?"

"I am saying that if the regulations were observed my batman and others would not be so frequently drunk, and the enforcing of these regulations, I understand, is a part of your duty."

"Then, sir," replied the sergeant major, "perhaps I had better report myself to the Commanding Officer."

"You can please yourself," said Barry, shortly, as he turned away.

"Very good, sir," replied the sergeant major. "I shall report myself at once."

The day following, the chaplain received an order to appear before the O. C. in the orderly room.

"Captain Dunbar, I understand that you are making a charge against Sergeant Major McFetteridge," was Colonel Leighton's greeting.

"I am making no charge against any one, sir," replied Barry quietly.

"What do you say to that, Sergeant Major McFetteridge?"

In reply, the sergeant major gave a full and fair statement of the passage between the chaplain and himself the day before.

"Is this correct, Captain Dunbar?" asked the O. C.

"Substantially correct, sir, except that the sergeant major is here on his own suggestion, and on no order of mine."