ike to hear a few words
from me. Well I like it in the army it is the life for me you bet. I am
feeling great how are you all--"

Ma Werner wasted an entire morning showing it around the neighbourhood,
and she read and reread it until it was almost pulp.

Six months of this. Buzz Werner was an intelligent machine composed of
steel, cord, and iron. I think he had forgotten that the Kearney girl
had ever existed. One day, after three months of camp life, the man in
the next cot had thrown him a volume of Kipling. Buzz fingered it,
disinterestedly. Until that moment Kipling had not existed for Buzz
Werner. After that moment he dominated his leisure hours. The Y.M.C.A.
hut had many battered volumes of this writer. Buzz read them all.

The week before Thanksgiving Buzz found himself on his way to New York.
For some reason unexplained to him he was separated from his company in
one of the great shake-ups performed for the good of the army. He never
saw them again. He was sent straight to a New York camp. When he beheld
his new lieutenant his limbs became fluid, and his heart leaped into his
throat, and his mouth stood open, and his eyes bulged. It was young
Hatton--Harry Hatton--whose aristocratic nose he had punched six months
before, in the Hatton Pulp and Paper Mill.

And even as he stared young Hatton fixed him with his eye, and then came
over to him and said, "It's all right, Werner."

Buzz Werner could only salute with awkward respect, while with one great
gulp his heart slid back into normal place. He had not thought that
Hatton was so tall, or so broad-shouldered, or so--

He no more thought of telling the other men that he had once knocked
this man down than he thought of knocking him down again. He would
almost as soon have thought of taking a punch at the President.

The day before Thanksgiving Buzz was told he might have a holiday. Also
he was given an address and a telephone number in New York City and told
that if he so desired he might call at that address and receive a
bountiful Thanksgiving dinner. They were expecting him there. That the
telephone exchange was Murray Hill, and the street Madison Avenue meant
nothing to Buzz. He made the short trip to New York, floundered about
the city, found every one willing and eager to help him find the address
on the slip, and brought up, finally, in front of the house on Madison
Avenue. It was a large, five-story stone place, and Buzz supposed it was
a flat, of c