sent there a year earlier to instruct recruits,
after recovering from a wound. He was the military man par excellence.
War was his game. He had been anxious to go to Siberia with the
Canadian contingent which had just departed. And the High Command had
retained him here to assist in the inglorious routine of
demobilization. Rutherford was disgruntled. Siberia had promised new
adventure, change, excitement.

The man, Hollister soon perceived, was actually sorry the war was
over, sorry that his occupation was gone. He talked of resigning and
going to Mexico, to offer his sword to whichever proved the stronger
faction. It would be a picnic after the Western Front. A man could
whip a brigade of those greasers into shape and become a power. There
ought to be good chances for loot.

Yet Hollister enjoyed his company. Rutherford was genial. He was the
first man for long to accept Hollister as a human being. He promised
to look Hollister up again before he went away.

The world actually seemed cheerful to Hollister, after Rutherford had
gone,--until in moving about the room he caught sight of his face in
the mirror.

CHAPTER III

About ten days later Tommy Rutherford walked into Hollister's room at
eight in the evening. He laid his cap and gloves on the bed, seated
himself, swung his feet to and fro for a second, and reached for one
of Hollister's cigarettes.

"It's a hard world, old thing," he complained. "Here was I all set for
an enjoyable winter. Nice people in Vancouver. All sorts of fetching
affairs on the tapis. And I'm to be demobilized myself next week.
Chucked out into the blooming street with a gratuity and a couple of
medals. Damn the luck."

He remained absorbed in his own reflections for a minute, blowing
smoke rings with meticulous care.

"I wonder if a fellow _could_ make it go in Mexico?" he drawled.

Hollister made no comment.

"Oh, well, hang it, sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," he
remarked, with an abrupt change of tone. "I'm going to a hop at the
Granada presently. Banish dull care and all that, for the time being,
anyway."

His gaze came to an inquiring rest on Hollister.

"What's up, old thing?" he asked lightly. "Why so mum?"

"Oh, nothing much," Hollister answered.

"Bad thing to get in the dumps," Rutherford observed sagely. "You
ought to keep a bottle of Scotch handy for that."

"Drink myself into a state of mind where the world glitters and
becomes joyful, eh