"Indeed I do," young Mr. Barnard said. "We met in a shell hole in France. We knew each other but have never seen each other. It's rather odd when you come to think of it."
"I suppose that's how he happened to assign you the cabins," Connie Bennett observed; "old time's sake, hey?"
"Oh, dear no," young Mr. Barnard laughed. "I should say that you boys come first if it's a question of old time's sake. No indeed, we should feel like intruders, usurpers, if there were any question of friendly preference. No, it was really quite odd when you come to think of it. I never dreamed who Tom Slade was when our accommodations were assigned us; indeed, his name did not appear in the correspondence. It was just a case of first come, first served, as you say. Later, we received some circular matter of the camp and there was a little note with it, as I remember, signed by Slade. Oh, no, the thing was all cut and dried before I knew who Slade was. Then we started a very pleasant correspondence. I expect to see him up here. He was one of the bravest young fellows on the west front; a sort of silent, taciturn, young fellow. Oh, no," young Mr. Barnard laughed in that pleasant way he had, "you boys can't accuse us of usurping your familiar home. You must come up and see us there, and I hope we shall all be good friends."
Roy Blakeley heard these words as in a dream, and even Peewee was silent. The others of Roy's troop looked at each other but said not a word. No indeed, we should feel like usurpers if there were any question of friendly preference. These words rang in Roy's ears, and as he said them over to himself there appeared in his mind's eye the picture of Tom Slade, stolid, unimpassioned, patient, unresentful—standing there near the doorway of the bank building and listening to the tirade of abuse which he, Roy, hurled at him. "If you want to think I'm a liar you can think so. You can tell them that if you want to. I don't care what you tell them." These words, too, rang in Roy's ears, and burned into his heart and conscience, and he knew that Tom Slade had not deigned to answer these charges and recriminations; would not answer them, any more than the rock of Gibraltar would deign to answer the petulant threats and menaces of the sea. Oh, if he could only unsay those words which he had hurled at Tom, his friend and companion! What mattered it who bunked in the cabins, so long as he knew what he knew now? How small and trifling seemed Tom's act of carelessness or forgetfulness, as he loomed up now in the strong, dogged pride which would not explain to one who had no right to doubt or disbelieve. How utterly contemptible Roy Blakeley seemed to himself now!
He tried to speak in his customary light and bantering manner, but he was too sick at heart to carry it off.
"He's—he's sort of like a rock," he said, by way of answering Barnard's comments on Tom. "He doesn't say much. You don't—you can't understand him very easy. Even—even I didn't——. I don't know where he is now. We haven't seen him for a long time. But one thing you can bet, you're welcome to the cabins on the hill. He said we wouldn't lose anything. Anyway, we won't lose much. We've got a tent we're going to put up down on the tenting space. You bet we'll come up and see you often, and you bet we'll be good friends. Our both knowing Tom, as you might say, ought to make us good friends."