"It's too blistering bad!" said Pollard, as, late that night, he stood upon the steps of the armory and scowled out into the darkness. "Even with Harvey on the team, we had no sure thing—'H' is shooting so like sin!—but now I don't know where we are. Well, Johnny, you'll have to do your cleverest, and perhaps we'll get there in spite of you."
"Thanks!" said the younger officer, thus addressed. "You're mighty encouraging, aren't you? Well, I've always said that I ought to have been put on the team, and to-morrow I'll prove it. Wow! how it blows!"
"Yes, it's breezy," assented Pollard, listening to the lively rat-a-tat played by the loose flag-halliards upon the tower-staff, "and later it'll rain. To-morrow, though, will be a good enough day; see if it isn't. Come along, my son, it's high time we were getting bedward."
"Now, see here, Johnny," he observed, a moment later, stopping at the head of the street, "I've got to make good time to catch my train, but I'll pause to remark that you must go home now! Don't color any pipes to-night; don't take a pencil and go to figuring on the scores, for matches aren't won in that way; and go to sleep early. Sleep is the all-important thing, and without it you'll not do anything to-morrow. Got all that? Good-night," and, tossing to his shoulder the rifle he carried, he rapidly strode away.
"Humph! he thinks I can't hold up my end," thought the lieutenant, glancing at the receding figure of his superior officer; "I'll show him! I'm sorry for Harvey, but I'm inclined to think that his place will be filled tolerably well. Pollard's right, though, about the sleep question. I'd like to play a game or two of billiards, but," heroically, "but—I'll go home."
Meanwhile Pollard was hastening towards his train. As he came in sight of the illuminated clock-dial upon the station his rapid walk quickened into a trot; and the trot, in its turn, gave place to a run when, as he passed in through the wide doorway, he heard the clang of the last gong. However, by a spirited dash down the long platform, he caught the handrail of the last car in the moving train, and swung himself, panting but triumphant, upon the steps.
"Enemy behind us?" inquired the brakeman, pausing in his task of knotting the dangling bell-cord, and glancing down at the uniformed figure below him.
"Didn't have time to see," said Pollard, laughing at the aptness of the question. "I ran without waiting to find out," and, as the train swung around a curve and rattled over a switch, he lurched through the doorway, and dropped into the nearest empty seat. Fifteen minutes later he found himself at his destination, and leaving behind him the oasis of brightness formed by the lights of the little station he plunged into the desert of suburban gloom lying beyond.
It certainly was not a cheerful night to be abroad. The sky was black as a hat, and the wind swept by in gusts that threatened to extinguish the street lamps which, at rare intervals, twinkled along the lonely way. It was early in September, and many of the houses still were closed; while the lateness of the hour made those that were occupied seem dark and untenanted.
Half unconsciously Pollard began to whistle "The White Cockade," and his step fell as naturally into the cadence of the air as if he were following the regimental drum-corps. A short walk brought him to his own house,—standing shadowy and silent among the surrounding trees,—and, dropping upon the floor of the porch the butt of his rifle, he fumbled in his pocket for his keys. He threw open the door, stepped into the yawning blackness of the unlighted hall, and groped his way along the wall to the electric button which should light the chandelier. He pressed it, but no blaze of light followed the sharp click. Once more he touched the button, and then, when again the light failed to respond, cautiously felt his way along the floor until he stood beneath the chandelier, and, reaching up his hand, found that the gas was turned off.