squadrons. He needed no press-agenting when
he met another R.A.F. man. So he found himself invited to homes, the
inside of which he would otherwise never have seen, and to pleasant
functions among people who would never have known of his existence save
for the circumstance of war. Pretty, well-bred girls smiled at him,
partly because airmen with notable records were still a novelty, and
partly because Jack MacRae was worth a second look from any girl who was
fancy-free. Matrons were kind to him because their sons said he was the
right sort, and some of these same matrons mothered him because he was
like boys they knew who had gone away to France and would never come
back.

This was very pleasant. MacRae was normal in every respect. He liked to
dance. He liked glittering lights and soft music. He liked nice people.
He liked people who were nice to him. But he seldom lost sight of his
objective. These people could relax and give themselves up to enjoyment
because they were "heeled"--as a boy lieutenant slangily put it--to
MacRae.

"It's a great game, Jack, if you don't weaken," he said. "But a fellow
can't play it through on a uniform and a war record. I'm having a
top-hole time, but it'll be different when I plant myself at a desk in
some broker's office at a hundred and fifty a month. It's mixed pickles,
for a fact. You can't buy your way into this sort of thing. And you
can't stay in it without a bank roll."

Which was true enough. Only the desire to "see it through" socially was
not driving Jack MacRae. He had a different target, and his eye did not
wander far from the mark. And perhaps because of this, chance and his
social gadding about gave him the opening he sought when he least
expected to find one.

To be explicit, he happened to be one of an after-theater party at an
informal supper dance in the Granada, which is to Vancouver what the
Biltmore is to New York or the Fairmont to San Francisco,--a place where
one can see everybody that is anybody if one lingers long enough. And
almost the first man he met was a stout, ruddy-faced youngster about his
own age. They had flown in the same squadron until "Stubby" Abbott came
a cropper and was invalided home.

Stubby fell upon Jack MacRae, pounded him earnestly on the back, and
haled him straight to a table where two women were sitting.

"Mother," he said to a plump, middle-aged woman, "here's Silent John
MacRae."

Her eyes lit up pleasantly.

"I've heard of