"The Sergeant-Major"—the gold-rimmed pince-nez were swung to an elevation indicating that individual and the fair moustache was twirled pensively—"the Sergeant-Major reports that—er—for the past six months you have been conducting yourself around the Post with fair average"—the suave tones hardened—"that you have wisely refrained from indulging your youthful fancies in any more such—er—dam-fool antics, Sir, as characterized your merry but brief career at the Gleichen detachment, so—er—I have decided to give you another chance. I have here"—he fumbled through some papers—"a request from Sergeant Slavin for another man at Davidsburg. I am transferring you there. Slavin—er—damn the man! damn the man! what's wrong with him, Sergeant-Major? . . . Two men have I sent him in as many months, and both of 'em, after a few days there, on some flimsy pretext or another, applied for transfers to other detachments. Good men, too. If this occurs again—damme!"—he glared at his subordinate—"I'll—er—bring that Irish 'ginthleman' into the Post for a summary explanation. Wire him of this man's transfer! . . . All right, Sergeant-Major!"
"About-turrn!—quick-march!" growled again the bass voice of the senior non-com; and he kept step behind George into the passage. "Here's your transport requisition, Redmond. Now—take a tumble to yourself, my lad—on this detachment. You're getting what 'Father' don't give to many—a second chance. Good-bye!"
George gripped the proffered hand and looked full into the kindly, meaning eyes. "Good-bye, S.M.!" he said huskily, "Thanks!"
Westward, the train puffed its way slowly along a slight, but continual up-grade through the foothills, following more or less the winding course of the Bow River. Despite the cold, clear brilliance of the day, seen under winter conditions the landscape on either side of the track presented a rather forlorn, dreary picture. So it appeared to George, anyway, as he gazed out of the window at the vast, spreading, white-carpeted valley, the monotonous aspect of which was only occasionally relieved by sparsely-dotted ranches, small wayside stations, or when they thundered across high trestle bridges over the partly-frozen, black, steaming river.
Two summers earlier he had travelled the same road, on a luxurious trip to the Coast. The memory of its scenic splendor then, the easy-going stages from one sumptuous mountain resort to another, now made him feel slightly dismal and discontented with his present lot. Eye-restful solace came however with the sight of the ever-nearing glorious sun-crowned peaks of the mighty "Rockies," sharply silhouetted against the dazzling blue of the sky.
Children's voices behind him suddenly broke in upon his reverie.
"That man!" said a small squeaking treble, "was a hobo. He was sitting in that car in front with the hard seats an' I went up to him an' I said, 'Hullo, Mister! why don't you wash your face an' shave it? we've all washed our faces this morning' . . . . We did, didn't we, Alice?—an' washed Porkey's too, an' he said 'Hullo, Bo! wash my face?—I don't have to—I might catch cold.'"
"But Jerry!" said another child's voice, "I don't think he could have been a real hobo, or he'd have had an empty tomato-can hanging around his neck on a string, like the pictures of 'Weary Willie' an' 'Tired Tim' in the funny papers."
Then ensued the sounds as of a juvenile scuffle and squawk. Master Jerry apparently resented having his pet convictions treated in this "Doubting Thomas" fashion, for the next thing George heard him say, was:
"Goozlemy, goozlemy, goozlemy! . . . No! he hadn't got a tomato-can, silly! but he'd got a big, fat bottle in his pocket an' he pulled the cork out of it an' sucked an' I said 'What have you got in your bottle?' an' he said 'Cold tea' but it didn't smell a bit like cold tea. There's a Mounted Policeman sitting in that seat in front of us. Let's ask him. Policemen always lock hoboes up in gaol an' kick them in the stomach, like you see them in the pictures."