nd the scope of war.

But when he went out into Vancouver's highways and met people, his
uniform gave them a conversational cue. And he found that here, six
thousand miles from the guns, even less than among his fellows in the
hangars behind the fighting line could he escape that topic. He did not
want to talk about fighting and killing. He had lived those things and
that was enough. So he came back to the Granada and read the papers and
had his lunch and decided to look up Tommy Ashe.

He had learned casually that morning that Tommy's company had more than
made good Tommy's prophecy of swift work. Tommy Ashe and Joe Hedley were
rising young men.

"Oh, yes, they've got a mint," a broker he knew said to Thompson, with
an unconcealed note of envy. "By gad, it's a marvel how a pair of young
cubs like that can start on a shoestring and make half a million apiece
in two years."

"How did they both manage to escape the draft?" Thompson asked. "I'm
sure Ashe is a Class A man."

"Huh!" the broker snorted. "Necessary government undertakings.
Necessary hell! All they had to do with the shipbuilding was to bank
their rake-off. I tell you, Thompson, this country has supported the war
in great style--but there's been a lot of raw stuff in places where you
wouldn't suspect it. I'm not knocking, y' understand. This is no time to
knock. But when the war's over, we've got to do some house-cleaning."

Thompson called the shipyard first. In the glow of a sunny September
morning he felt that he must have imagined Tommy's attitude. He was a
fair-minded man, and he gave Tommy the benefit of the doubt.

But he failed to get in touch with Tommy. A voice informed him politely
that Mr. Ashe had left town that morning and would be gone several days.

Thompson hung up the receiver. For at least five minutes he sat debating
with himself. Then he took it down again.

"Give me Seymour 365L," he said to Central.

"Hello."

"Is Mr. Carr at home?"

"You have the wrong number," he was answered, and he heard the
connection break.

He tried again, and once more the same voice, this time impatiently,
said, "Wrong number."

"Wait," Thompson said quickly. "Is this Seymour 365L, corner of Larch
and First?"

"Yes."

"I beg pardon for bothering you. I'm just back from overseas and I'm
rather anxious to locate Mr. Carr--Samuel A. Carr. This was his home
two years ago."

"Just a minute," the feminine voice had recovered its original
sweetne