"Then I understand that you withdraw your charge against the sergeant major."

"I withdraw nothing, sir. I had no intention of laying a charge, and I have laid no charge against the sergeant major; but at the same time I have no hesitation in saying that the regulations governing the canteen are not observed, and, as I understand that the responsibility for enforcing these regulations is in the sergeant major's hands, in that sense I consider that he has failed in his duty."

But the sergeant major was too old a soldier to be caught napping.

He had his witnesses ready at hand to testify that the canteen was conducted according to regulations, and that if the chaplain's batman or any others took more liquor than they should, neither the corporal in charge of the canteen nor the sergeant major was to be blamed.

"All I can say, sir," replied Barry, "is that soldiers are frequently drunk on this ship, and I myself have seen them when the worse for liquor going into the canteen."

"And did you report these men to their officers or to me, Captain Dunbar, or did you report the corporal in charge of the canteen?"

"No, sir, I did not."

"Then sir, do you know that you have been guilty of serious neglect of duty?" said the colonel sternly.

"Do I understand, sir, that it is my duty to report to you every man I see the worse for liquor on this ship?"

"Most certainly," replied the colonel, emphatically. "Every breach of discipline must be reported."

"I understood, sir, that an officer had a certain amount of discretion in a matter of this kind."

"Where did you get that notion?" inquired the colonel. "Let me tell you that you are wrong. Discretionary powers lie solely with me."

"Then, sir, I am to understand that I must report every man whom I see the worse for liquor?"

"Certainly, sir."

"And every officer, as well, sir?"

The colonel hesitated a moment, fumbled with his papers, and then blurted out:

"Certainly, sir. And let me say, Captain Dunbar, that an officer, especially an officer in your position, ought to be very careful in making a charge against a N. C. O., more particularly the sergeant major of his battalion. Nothing is more calculated to drag down discipline.

The case is dismissed."

"Sir," said Barry, maintaining his place before the table. "May I ask one question?"

"The case is dismissed, Captain Dunbar. What do you want?" asked the colonel brusquely.

"I want to be quite clear as to my duty, in the future, sir. Do I understand that if any man or officer is found under the influence of liquor, anywhere in this ship, and at any hour of the day or night, he is to be reported at once to the orderly room, even though that officer should be, say, even the adjutant or yourself?" Barry said, gazing up at the colonel with a face in which earnestness and candour were equally blended.

The colonel gazed back at him with a face in which rage and perplexity were equally apparent. For some moments, he was speechless, while the whole orderly room held its breath.

"I mean--that you--you understand--of course," stuttered the colonel, "that an officer must use common sense. He must be damned sure of what he says, in other words," said the colonel, rushing his speech.

"But, sir," continued Barry.

"Oh, go to the devil, sir," roared the colonel. "The case is dismissed."

Barry saluted and left the room.

"Is the man an infernal and condemned fool, or what is the matter with him?" exclaimed the colonel, turning to his adjutant in a helpless appeal, while the orderly room struggled with its grins.

"The devil only knows," said Major Bustead. "He beats me. He is an interfering and impertinent ass, in my opinion, but what else he is, I don't know."

It is fair to say that the sergeant major bore the chaplain no grudge for his part in the affair. The whole battalion, however, soon became possessed of the tale, adorned and expanded to an unrecognisable extent, and revelled in ecstasy over the discomfort of the C. O. The consensus of opinion was that on the whole the sergeant major had come off with premier honours, and as between the "old man" and the "Sky Pilot," as Barry was coming to be called, it was about an even break. As for the Pilot, he remained more than ever a mystery, and on the whole, the battalion was inclined to leave him alone.

The chaplain, however, had partially, at least, achieved his aim, in that the regulations governing the canteen were more strictly enforced, to the vast improvement of discipline generally, and to the immense advantage of Harry Hobbs in particular.

Soon after this, another event occurred which aided materially in bringing about this same result, and which also led to a modification of opinion in the battalion in regard to their chaplain.

To the civilian soldier the punctilio of military etiquette is frequently not only a bore, but at times takes on the appearance of wilful insult which no grown man should be expected to tolerate. To the civilian soldier born and brought up in wide spaces of the far Northwest this is especially the case.

It is not surprising, therefore, that McCuaig, fresh from his thirty-five years of life in the Athabasca wilds, should find the routine of military discipline extremely irksome and the niceties of military etiquette as from a private to an officer not only foolish but degrading both to officer and man. Under the patient shepherding of Barry's father, he had endured much without protest or complaint, but, with the advent of Sergeant Major McFetteridge, with his rigid military discipline and his strict insistence upon etiquette, McCuaig passed into a new atmosphere. To the freeborn and freebred recruit from the Athabasca plains, the stiff and somewhat exaggerated military bearing of the sergeant major was at first a source of quiet amusement, later of perplexity, and finally of annoyance. For McFetteridge and his minutiae of military discipline McCuaig held only contempt. To him, the whole business was a piece of silly nonsense unworthy of serious men.

It was inevitable that the sergeant major should sooner or later discover this opinion in Private McCuaig, and that he should consider the holding of this opinion as a tendency toward insubordination. It was also inevitable that the sergeant major should order a course of special fatigues calculated to subdue the spirit of the insubordinate private.

It took McCuaig some days to discover that in these frequent fatigues and special duties, he was undergoing punishment, but once made, the discovery wrought in him a cold and silent rage, which drove him to an undue and quite unwonted devotion to the canteen, which in turn transformed the reserved, self-controlled man of the wilds into a demonstrative, disorderly and quarrelsome "rookie" aching for trouble.

Under these circumstances, an outburst was inevitable. Corporal Ferry, in charge of the canteen, furnished the occasion.

"No more for you, McCuaig. You've got more aboard now than you can carry."

To the injury of being denied another beer was added the insult of suggesting his inability to carry what he had. This to a man of McCuaig's experience in every bar and camp and roadhouse from Edmonton to the Arctic circle, was not to be endured.

He leaned over the improvised bar, until his face almost touched the corporal's.

"What?" he ejaculated, but in the single expletive there darted out such concentrated fury, that the little corporal sprang back as from a striking snake.

"You can't have any more beer, McCuaig," said the corporal, from a safe distance.

"Watch me, sonny!" replied McCuaig.

With a single sweep of his hand, he snatched two bottles from the ledge behind the corporal's head. Holding one aloft, he knocked the top off the other, drank its contents slowly and smashed the empty bottle at the spot where the corporal's head had been; knocked the top off the second bottle and was proceeding to drink it, in a more or less leisurely fashion.

"Private Timms! Private Mulligan!" shouted Corporal Ferry, reappearing from beneath the counter. "Arrest that man!"

"Wait, sonny; give me a chance," cried McCuaig, in a wild, high, singsong voice. Lifting his bottle to his lips, he continued to drink slowly, keeping his eye upon the two privates, who were considering the best method of carrying out their orders.

"There, sonny, fill that up again," cried McCuaig, good-naturedly, when he had finished his drink, tossing the second bottle at the head of the corporal, who, being on the alert, again made a successful disappearance.

"Now, then, boys, come on," said McCuaig, backing toward the wall, and dropping his hands to his hips. With a curse of disappointment that he found himself without his usual weapons of defence, McCuaig raised a shout, sprang into the air, cracked his heels together in a double rap, and swinging his arms around his head, yelled:

"Come on, my boys! I'm hungry, I am! Meat! Meat! Meat!"

With each "meat," his white teeth came together with a snap like that of a hungry wolf. Such was the beastly ferocity in his face and posture that both Private Timms and Private Mulligan, themselves men of more than average strength, paused and looked at the corporal for further orders.

"Arrest that man," said the corporal again, preserving at the same time an attitude that revealed a complete readiness for swift disappearance.

"Private McTavish," he added, calling upon a tall Highlander who was gazing with admiring eyes upon the raging McCuaig, "assist Private Timms and Private Mulligan in arresting that man."

"Why don't you come yourself, sonny?" inquired McCuaig. With a swift sidestep and a swifter swoop of his long arm, he reached for the corporal, who once more found safety in swift disappearance.