would not wound Priscilla or,
without abundant reason, disturb the edifice builded under Ray's
administration. The Association might even have lived and thrived
another week on Priscilla's ministrations--and at Ray's expense--for
daily coffee and sandwiches for all comers, forty odd, at least, was
proving costly. It was "Company Q" itself that broke it up. The
privilege and the darkness combined enabled certain of its unhallowed
spirits to smuggle whisky into the prison room, and, thus stimulated, a
gifted ex-professional of the "dramatic line" set up a wonderfully if
wickedly witty burlesque of the evening's lecture, to the irrepressible,
and presently uproarious, mirth of his fellow-jailbirds. It was just
what Stone was expecting, and so far from ordering it stopped, he sent
for Ray and bade him listen. Then the post and the squadron commander
shook hands in silence. "You see for yourself," said Stone. "I, too,
have been expecting it," said Ray. Then the guard was sent in. The
impious revel was suddenly and summarily squelched. Then Ray gently told
Priscilla the sinners could come no more, but mercifully would not tell
her much, at least, that he had heard. So the Soldiers' Advancement
Association retrograded in numbers to less than half, and then, as
others not at the moment under guard took alarm, to less than a dozen.
But Priscilla wrapped herself up in the nine that were left, and, as all
barrack room was now needed, for these they fitted up a little apartment
in the basement of the major's quarters, and then came Sandy Ray, as has
been said, and spring was turning to summer, and Priscilla's band of
stalwarts had been reduced to six, and of these six the apple of her
spiritual eye was Blenke.

One of the recruits, regimental and bibli-classical, was Blenke, but
already a marked man. Small of stature, lithe, slender and sinewy, with
dainty little hands and feet, with pallid face and regular features and
great big, mournful brown eyes that looked pleadingly into those of his
superiors, Blenke wore the uniform of a private with the ease and grace
and care of a dandy subaltern. Blenke's gloves and shoes could not be
furnished by the quartermaster's department; they did not deal in such
small sizes; but Blenke brought with him all he could need of such items
for months to come. Blenke was a silent fellow in barracks. Blenke never
whistled or sang. Blenke rarely spoke and never smiled. It was not that
Blenke's face was