the Allisons'. The next morning he found
him at head-quarters, chatting affably with the aides-de-camp, and
later he encountered him at Brentano's. Just how it came about Cranston
could not now remember, but he had invited Elmendorf to step in and look
over some old books of his father's, and as the tutor became
enthusiastic he was bidden to come again. Out at the post the major
established his modest soldier home, much missing the companionship of
his devoted wife, who was in Europe at the time with their only
daughter. Every week, perhaps, he would run in for half a day to look
over his possessions, but meantime he had given Elmendorf authority to
make a complete catalogue of the books, as well as to make himself at
home in the library, a room which Mrs. McGrath kept in apple-pie order.
But the fame of Elmendorf had spread from the city to the garrison, and
Cranston had already begun to wish he had been less impulsive in his
invitation, when Mrs. Mac told him of the missionary work being done
among his retainers by this stranger within his gates. The question now
was, what action could be justifiably taken?

Entering the old dimly-lighted study, long sacred to his father's use
and now sacred to his memory, the major found on every hand evidences
that Elmendorf had indeed been at work. Out from their accustomed places
on the shelves the books had been dragged, and were now stacked up about
the room in perplexing disarray. Some lay open upon the table, others
on the desk near the north window, his father's favorite seat, and here
some of the rarest of the collection were now piled ten and fifteen
deep. On the table in loose sheets were some pencilled memoranda on
names, authors, and dates of publication. On the desk were several pads
or blocks of the paper much used by writers for the press, and, face
upward, among them, held by an old-fashioned glass paper-weight, were a
dozen leaves closely pencilled in Elmendorf's bold hand. Cranston raised
the weight, expecting to find some more memoranda concerning his
precious books, but was not entirely surprised to read, in glaring
head-lines, "The Wage-Worker's Weapon," followed by some vehement lines
denunciatory of capital, monopoly, "pampered palates in palatial homes,
boodle-burdened, beer-bloated legislators," etc., the sort of
alliterative and inflammatory composition which, distributed in the
columns of the papers of the _Alarm_ and _Arbeiter Zeitung_ stamp, was
read al