ill, eh?" Mr. Barnard inquired,
turning the conversation to a more serious vein. "And how is it you're
not to bunk up there _this_ year, since you like it so much?"

As if by common consent Roy's troop left it for him to answer, and even
Peewee was quiet.

"Oh, I don't know," Roy said; "first come, first served; that's the
rule. You fellows got in your application, that's all there was to it. I
guess you know Tom Slade, who works in the camp's city office, don't
you, Mr. Barnard?"

"Indeed I do," young Mr. Barnard said. "We met in a shell hole in
France. We knew each other but have never seen each other. It's rather
odd when you come to think of it."

"I suppose that's how he happened to assign you the cabins," Connie
Bennett observed; "old time's sake, hey?"

"Oh, dear no," young Mr. Barnard laughed. "I should say that you boys
come first if it's a question of old time's sake. No indeed, we should
feel like intruders, usurpers, if there were any question of friendly
preference. No, it was really quite odd when you come to think of it. I
never dreamed who Tom Slade was when our accommodations were assigned
us; indeed, his name did not appear in the correspondence. It was just a
case of first come, first served, as you say. Later, we received some
circular matter of the camp and there was a little note with it, as I
remember, signed by Slade. Oh, no, the thing was all cut and dried
before I knew who Slade was. Then we started a very pleasant
correspondence. I expect to see him up here. He was one of the bravest
young fellows on the west front; a sort of silent, taciturn, young
fellow. Oh, no," young Mr. Barnard laughed in that pleasant way he had,
"you boys can't accuse us of usurping your familiar home. You must come
up and see us there, and I hope we shall all be good friends."

Roy Blakeley heard these words as in a dream, and even Peewee was silent.
The others of Roy's troop looked at each other but said not a word. _No
indeed, we should feel like usurpers if there were any question of
friendly preference_. These words rang in Roy's ears, and as he said
them over to himself there appeared in his mind's eye the picture of Tom
Slade, stolid, unimpassioned, patient, unresentful--standing there near
the doorway of the bank building and listening to the tirade of abuse
which he, Roy, hurled at him. "_If you want to think I'm a liar you can
think so. You can tell them that if you want to. I don't care what you
tell