h, come, T.A.! One man--"

"Multiplied by a million. Look at Fisk. Just such another case. Look
at--"

The shrill summons of the telephone cut him short. Emma's head came up
alertly. She glanced at her wrist-watch and gave a little exclamation of
horror.

"That's for me! I'm half an hour late! The first time, too." She was at
the telephone a second later, explanatory, apologetic. Then back in the
dining-room doorway, her cheeks flushed, tugging at her gloves, poised
for flight. "Sorry, dear. But this morning was so important, and that
letter about Jock upset me. I'm afraid I'm a rotten soldier."

"I'm afraid you are, Emma."

She stared at that. "Why--! Oh, you're still angry at something. Listen,
dear--I'll call for you at the office to-night at five, and we'll walk
home together. Wait for me. I may be a few minutes late--"

She was off. The front door slammed sharply. Buck sat very still for a
long minute, staring down at the coffee cup whose contents he did not
mean to drink. The light from the window cameoed his fine profile. And
you saw that his jaw was set. His mind was a thousand miles away, in
Chicago, Illinois, with the boy who wanted to fight and couldn't.

Emma, flashing down Fifth Avenue as fast as wheels and traffic rules
would permit, saw nothing of the splendid street. Her mind was a
thousand miles away, in Chicago, Illinois.

And a thousand miles away, in Chicago, Illinois, Jock McChesney, three
hours later, was slamming down the two big windows of his office. From
up the street came the sound of a bugle and of a band playing a brisk
march. And his office windows looked out upon Michigan Avenue. If you
know Chicago, you know the building that housed the Raynor offices--a
great gray shaft, towering even above its giant neighbours, its head in
the clouds, its face set toward the blue beauty of Lake Michigan. Until
very recently those windows of his office had been a source of joy and
inspiration to Jock McChesney. The green of Grant Park just below. The
tangle of I.C. tracks beyond that, and the great, gracious lake beyond
that, as far as the eye could see. He had seen the changes the year had
brought. The lake dotted with sinister gray craft. Dog tents in Grant
Park, sprung up overnight like brown mushrooms. Men--mere boys, most of
them--awkward in their workaday clothes of office and shop, drilling,
wheeling, marching at the noon hour. And parades, and parades, and
parades. At first Jock, and, in