On The Firing Line | Page 8

himself, he laughed at her tone.
"Certainly not. I am going as a soldier."
She sat staring at him in thoughtful silence.
"But you are a gentleman," she said slowly at length.
Weldon's mouth twitched at the corners.
"I hope so," he assented.
"Then how can you go as soldier, for I suppose you mean private?"
Dictated by generations-old tradition, the question was eloquent. Weldon's one purpose, however, was to combat that tradition; and he answered calmly,--
"Why not?"
"Because--because it isn't neat," she responded unexpectedly.
This time, Weldon laughed outright. Trained in the wider, more open- air school of Canadian life, he found her insular point of view distinctly comic.
"I have a portable tub somewhere among my luggage," he reassured her.
She shook her head.
"No; that's not what I mean. But you won't be thrown with men of your own class. The private is a distinct race; you'll find him unbearable, when you are really in close quarters with him."
Deliberately Weldon rose and stood looking down at her. His lips were smiling; his eyes were direct and grave. His mother could have told the girl, just then, that some one had touched him on the raw.
"Miss Dent," he asked slowly; "is this the way you cheer on the men?"
She flushed under his rebuke and, for a moment, her blue eyes showed an angry light.
"I beg your pardon. I was referring to the men whom I am likely to know."
"And omitting myself?" he inquired.
"You are the exception which proves the rule," she answered a little shortly. "Of course, I wish you all good; but I don't see how it is to be gained, if you bury yourself in the ranks."
"It may depend a little upon what you mean by good," he returned, with a dignity which, notwithstanding her momentary petulance, won her full respect. "I am not going out in search of the path to a generalship. Fighting isn't my real profession."
"Then what are you going for?" she demanded sharply. With no consciousness of dramatic effect, his eyes turned to the Union Jack fluttering above them.
"Because I couldn't stay away," he answered simply. "From Magersfontein to Nooitdedacht, the pull on me has been growing stronger. I am not needed at home; I can shoot a little and ride a good deal. I am taking out my own horse; I shall draw no pay. I can do no harm; and, somewhere or other, I may do a little good. For the rest, I prefer the ranks. It's not always the broadest man who lives entirely with his own class. For a while, I am willing to meet some one outside. As soon as I get to Cape Town, I shall enlist in a regiment of horse, put on the khaki and learn to wind myself up in my putties. Then it will remain to be seen whether my old friends will accept Trooper Weldon on their list of acquaintances."
"One of them will," the girl said quickly. "If only for the sake of novelty, I shall be glad to know a man in the ranks."
He shook his head.
"No novelty, Miss Dent. I know any number of fellows who are doing the same thing. We can't all be officers; a few of us must take orders. Out in the hunting field, we say it is the thoroughbred dog who answers to call most quickly."
She ignored his last words.
"And you don't even know where you are going?" she asked. "To Cape Town."
"But after that?"
"To my banker. After that, to the nearest recruiting station."
"So you'll not stop in Cape Town?"
Weldon's quick ear caught the little note of regret in her voice.
"Not long. Long enough, however, to pull any latch-string that offers itself to me."
Her eyes dropped to the shining sea.
"My mother will offer ours to you," she said quietly. Then she added, with a swift flash of merriment, "And you will wish to see Miss Arthur again."
Weldon cast a mocking glance over his shoulder at the recumbent, open-mouthed form.
"Is the lady going to stop long with you?" he queried.
"Long enough to recover from her invalidism."
"To judge from her greeny-yellow cast of countenance, that may take some time. But tell me, Miss Dent, does she always sleep out loud like this?"
"Not always. It usually comes when she is taking what she calls forty winks."
"Then may a merciful heaven prevent her from taking eighty," Weldon observed piously. "Still, the sleeping cat--"
"Fox," she corrected him promptly.
"Fox be it, then. Miss Arthur seems to me to be feline, rather than vulpine, though." Bending forward, the girl studied her chaperon thoughtfully.
"She really isn't so bad, Mr. Weldon. She means well. It is only that I don't like tight frizzles and a hymn-book in combination. People should always have one point of absolute worldliness."
"Aren't fizzles--that is what you called the thatch over her eyebrows; isn't it?--aren't they worldly?"
Ethel Dent laughed with the