There had been a morning of jubilee in the camp of the Fifth Separate Brigade, and a row in the tents of the regulars.  Up to within a fortnight such a state of affairs would have been considered abnormal, for the papers would have it that the former were on the verge of dissolution through plague, pestilence and famine due to the neglect of officials vaguely referred to as “the military authorities,” or “the staff,” while, up to the coming of Canker to command, sweet accord had reigned in the regular brigade, and the volunteers looked on with envy.  But now a great martial magnate had praised the stalwart citizen soldiery whom he had passed in review early in the day, and set them to shouting by the announcement that, as reward for their hard work and assiduous drill, they should have their heart’s desire and be shipped across the seas to far Manila.  It had all been settled beforehand at headquarters.  The “chief” had known for four days that that particular command would be selected for the next expedition, but it tickled “the boys” to have it put that way, and the home papers would make so much of it.  So there was singing and triumph and rejoicing all along the eastern verge of a rocky, roughly paved cross street, and rank blasphemy across the way.  To the scandal and sorrow of the ­teenth Infantry some of the recent robberies had been traced to their very doors.  A commissary-sergeant had “weakened,” a cartman had “squealed,” and one of the most popular and attractive young soldiers in the whole command was now a prisoner in the guardhouse charged with criminal knowledge of the whole affair, and of being a large recipient of the ill-gotten money ­Morton of the adjutant’s office, a private in Company “K.”

What made it worse was the allegation that several others, noncommissioned officers and “special duty men,” were mixed up in the matter, and Canker had rasped the whole commissioned force present for duty, in his lecture upon the subject, and had almost intimated that officers were conniving at the concealment of the guilt of their sergeants rather than have it leak out that the felony was committed in a company of their commanding.

He and Gordon had had what was described as a “red-hot” row, all because Gordon flatly declared that while something was queer about the case of the young clerk who “had money to burn,” as the men said, he’d bet his bottom dollar he wasn’t a thief.  Canker said such language was a reflection on himself, as he had personally investigated the case, was convinced Morton’s guilt could be established, and had so reported to the brigade commander in recommending trial by general court-martial.  Indeed he had made out a case against the lad even before he was arrested and returned to camp.  Gordon asked if he had seen the boy and heard his story.  Canker reddened and said he hadn’t, and he didn’t mean to and didn’t have to.  Gordon said he had ­he had talked with the lad fully and freely on his being brought to camp toward nine o’clock, and was greatly impressed with his story ­as would any one else be who heard it.  Canker reddened still more and said he wouldn’t allow officers to interview prisoners without his authority.  “I’ll prefer charges against the next that does it,” said he.

And not three hours later, Mr. Billy Gray, sprawling on his camp cot, striving to forget the sorrow of the earlier morning, and to memorize a page of paragraphs of army regulations, was suddenly accosted by an orderly who stood at the front of the tent, scratching at the tent flap ­the camp substitute for a ring at the bell.

“A note for the lieutenant,” said he, darting in and then darting out, possibly fearful of question.  It was a queer note: 

“I am a total stranger to you, but I wore in brighter days the badge of the same society that was yours at the university.  Three of the fraternity are in my company ­one is on guard and he urged me to write at once to you.  They know me to be a Brother Delt, even though I dare not tell my real name.  What I have to say is that the charge against me is utterly false, as I can convince you, but could not convince a court.  I am confined at the moment of all others in my life when it is most vitally important that I should be free.  Grant me ten minutes’ interview this afternoon and if I do not prove myself guiltless I will ask no favor ­but when I do convince you, do as you would be done by.

                                      Yours in [Greek:D S CH],
                                        “George Morton.”

“Well, I’ll be blessed!” said Mr. Gray, as he rolled out of his gray blanket.  “Here’s a state of things!  Listen to this, captain,” he called to his company commander in the adjoining tent.  “Here’s Morton, back from forty-eight hours’ absence without leave, brought back by armed guard after sharp resistance, charged with Lord knows what all, wants to tell me his story and prove his innocence.”

“You let him alone,” growled his senior.  “Remember what Canker said, or you’ll go in arrest.  What call has Morton on you, I’d like to know?”

The lad flushed.  Fraternity was a very sacred thing in the [Greek:  D S CH].  It was “the most exclusive crowd at the ’Varsity.”  Its membership was pledged to one another by unusual ties.  It was the hardest society for a fellow to get into in any one of the seven colleges whereat it flourished, and its mystic bonds were not shaken off with the silken gown and “mortar board” of undergraduate days, but followed its membership through many a maturer year.  It was a society most college men might ask to join in vain.  Money, social station, influence were powerless.  Not until a student had been under observation two whole years and was thoroughly known could he hope for a “bid” to become a “Delta Sig.”  Not until another six months of probation could he sport its colors, and not until he formally withdrew from its fold, in post graduation years, could he consider himself absolved from its mild obligations.  But the boast of the “Delta Sig” had ever been that no one of its membership had ever turned a deaf ear to a fellow in need of aid.  Who of its originators ever dreamed of such a thing as its drifting into and becoming a factor in the affairs of the regular army?

No wonder Gray stood for a moment, the paper still in his hands, irresolute, even disturbed.  Not to answer the appeal meant to run counter to all the tenets of his fraternity.  To answer might mean arrest and court-martial for deliberate disobedience of orders.  Canker had no more mercy than an Indian.  It was barely forty-eight hours since he had been publicly warned by an experienced old captain that he would find no “guardian angel” in Squeers.  It would seriously mar his prospects to start now with Squeers “down on him,” and as that lynx-eyed commander was ever on watch for infractions of orders, Billy well knew that he could not hope to see and talk with the prisoner and Canker not hear of it.  To ask permission of Canker would only make matters worse ­he was sure to refuse and then re-emphasize his orders and redouble his vigilance.  To ask the consent of the officer-of the-day or the connivance of the officer-of-the-guard was to invite them to court arrest and trial on their own account.  He couldn’t do that even to oblige a brother Delt.  If only Ned Craven were officer-of-the-guard something might be done ­he was a college man, too, and though not a “Delt,” but rather of a rival set, he “would understand” and possibly help.  Guard mount was held toward dusk and that was four hours away, at least.  The prisoner’s note and tone were urgent.  An idea occurred to Billy:  What if he could get Gordon to let him “go on” this very evening?  It wasn’t his tour.  He had “marched off” only two days before as he well remembered, for Canker had “roughed” him up and down about that little error in copying the list of prisoners from the report of the previous day.  Moreover, he had counted on going to town right after “retreat,” dining at the Palace, an extravagance not to be thought of at other times, so as to be on hand when the Primes and Amy Lawrence came down to dinner.  He had planned it all ­even to the amount of surprise he was to exhibit when he should discover about when he had finished his own dinner that they were just beginning theirs, and the extent and degree of pleasurable emotion he might venture on showing as he hastened over to greet them, and accept their offer to be seated with them, even if he had been so unkind as to dine beforehand solus instead of with them.  He had set his heart on having a chat with Miss Lawrence as part recompense for all he had lost that morning, and all this he was thinking of while still fumbling over that disturbing note.  Time was getting short, too; there was no telling how much longer they might stay.  Mr. Prime had brought his only daughter all that long journey across the continent on the assurance that the boy he loved, with whom he had quarreled, and whom, in his anger, he had sorely rebuked, had enlisted there in San Francisco and was serving in a regiment at the great camp west of the city.  He had come full of hope and confidence; he had found the young soldier described, and, in his bitter disappointment, he declared there was no resemblance to justify the report sent him by the boy’s own uncle, who vowed he had met him with comrades on the main street of the city, that the recognition was mutual, for the boy had darted around the first corner and escaped.  His companions were scattered by the time Mr. Lawrence returned to the spot after a brief, fruitless search, but private detectives had taken it up and “located,” as they thought, young Prime and telegraphed the father in the distant East.

Now, Mr. Lawrence was away on business of his own.  Written assurances that he couldn’t be mistaken lost weight, and Mr. Prime, disheartened, was merely waiting the report of an agent who thought he had traced the boy to Tampa.  In twenty-four hours he might spirit his daughter away on another chase, and then there would be no further warrant for Miss Lawrence’s remaining in the city.  She would return to her lovely home in one of the loveliest of Californian valleys, miles away from the raw fogs and chills of the Golden Gate, and would be no more seen among the camps.  That, said Billy Gray to himself, would take every bit of sunshine from his life.

All this detail, or much of it, he had learned from the fair lips of Miss Lawrence herself, for Mr. Prime and his daughter seemed to shrink from speaking of the matter.  From the first Miss Amy had had to take the young gentleman under her personal wing, as it were.  In her desire to aid her uncle and cousin in every way, and knowing them to be strangers to the entire camp, she had eagerly sent for him as the first familiar or friendly object she saw.  Then when he came and was presented, and proved to possess little interest to the careworn man and his anxious and devoted child, it devolved upon Miss Lawrence to make much of Billy in proportion as they made little of him, and for three days or so the blithe young fellow seemed fairly to walk on air.  Moreover, she had taken him into the family confidences in telling him of the missing son and brother, for both her uncle and cousin, she said, were so sensitive about it they could not talk to any one except when actually necessary.  They had leaned, as it were, on the General and on Colonel Armstrong for a day, and then seemed to draw away from both.  They even seemed to take it much amiss that her father had to be absent when they came, though they had sent no word, until too late, of their coming.  He was on his return, might arrive any hour, but so might they go.  Now if Billy could only discover that missing son ­

Then came an inspiration!  Penciling a brief note he gave it to a soldier of his company and bade him take it to the guard tents.  It told Morton of the colonel’s orders, issued that very day, and bade him be patient ­he hoped and believed opportunity would be afforded for an interview that evening.  Then he hunted up a subaltern of his own grade whom he knew would probably be the detail for officer-of-the-guard that evening.  “Brooke,” said he, “will you swap tours with me if Gordon’s willing.  I have ­I’d like mightily to exchange if it’s all the same to you.”

Brooke hesitated.  He had social hopes and aspirations of his own.  By “swapping” with Gray he might find himself doomed to a night in camp when he had accepted for some pleasant function in town.

“Thought you were keen to go in to-night ­right after retreat,” he hazarded.

“Well, I was,” said Gray, pulling his drab campaign hat down over his eyes to shut out the glare of the westering sun.  “But I’ve got ­a new wrinkle.”

“Some bid for Friday?  That’s your tour, isn’t it?” And Brooke began counting on his fingers.  “Wait till I look at my notebook.  Friday?  Why, that’s the night of the Burton’s card party ­thought you didn’t know them.”

“I don’t,” said Gray, glad enough to escape the other question.  “And you hate card parties, you know you do.  It’s a go, is it?  I’ll see Gordon at once.”  And off he went, leaving Brooke to wonder why he should be so bent on the arrangement.

But Gordon proved an unexpected foe to the plan.  “Can’t be done, Billy,” said he, sententiously.  “Canker watches those details like a hawk.  He hasn’t forgotten you only came off two days ago, and if I were to mount you to-night he’d mount me ­with both feet.”

“Think there’s any use in asking him?” queried the boy, tossing a backward glance toward Canker’s tent.  “Not unless you’re suffering for another snub.  That man loves to say ‘no’ as much as any girl I ever asked, and he doesn’t do it to be coaxed, either.  Best leave it alone, Billy.”

And then the unexpected happened.  Into the tent with quick, impetuous step, came the commanding officer himself, and something had occurred to stir that gentleman to the core.  His eyes were snapping, and his head was high.

“Mr. Gordon,” said he, “here’s more of this pilfering business, and now they’re beginning to find out it isn’t all in my camp by a damned sight.  I want that letter copied at once.”  Then with a glance at Gray, who had whipped off his cap and was standing in respectful attitude, he changed his tone from the querulous, half-treble of complaint.  “What’s this you’d best leave alone?” he suddenly demanded.  “There are a dozen things you’d best leave alone and a dozen you would do well to cultivate and study.  When I was ­however, I never was a lieutenant except in war-time, when they amounted to something.  I got my professional knowledge in front of the enemy ­not at any damned charity school.  You’re here to ask some new indulgence, I suppose.  Want to stay in town over night and fritter away your money and the time the government pays for.  No, sir; you can’t have my consent.  You will be back in camp at twelve o’clock, and stop and report your return to the officer-of-the-guard, so that I may know the hour you come in.  Who’s officer-of-the-guard to-night, Mr. Gordon?”

“Mr. Brooke, sir.”

“Mr. Brooke!  Why, I thought I told you he was to take those prisoners in town to-morrow.  He has to testify before that court in the case of Sergeant Kelly and it saves my sending another officer and having two of our lieutenants away from drill and hanging around the Bohemian Club.  Detail somebody else!”

“All right, sir,” answered Gordon imperturbably.  “Make any odds, sir, who is detailed?”

Canker had turned to his desk and was tossing over the papers with nervous hand.  Gray impulsively stepped forward, his eyes kindling with hope.  It was on the tip of his tongue to launch into a proffer of his own services for the detail, but Gordon hastily warned him back with a sweep of the hand and a portentous scowl.

“No.  One’s as bad as the other.  Next thing I know some of ’em will be letting prisoners escape right under my nose, making us the laughing stock of these damned militia volunteers.” (Canker entered service in ’61 as a private in a city company that was militia to the tip of its spike-tailed coats, but he had forgotten it.) “I want these young idlers to understand distinctly, by George, that the first prisoner that gets away from this post takes somebody’s commission with him.  D’you hear that, Mr. Gray?” And Canker turned and glared at the bright blue eyes as though he would like to blast their clear fires with the breath of his disapprobation.  “Has that young fellow, Morton, been put in irons yet?” he suddenly asked, whirling on Gordon again.

“Think not, sir.  Supplies limited.  Officer-of-the-day reported half an hour ago every set was in use.  Sent over to division quartermaster and he answered we had a dozen more’n we were entitled to now.  Wanted to know ’f we meant to iron the whole regiment ­”

“The hell he did!” raged Canker.  “I’ll settle that in short order.  My horse there, orderly!  I’ll be back by four, Mr. Gordon.  Fix that detail to suit yourself.”  And so saying the irascible colonel flung himself out of the tent and into his saddle.

“You young idiot,” said Gordon, whirling on Billy the moment the coast was clear.  “You came within an ace of ruining the whole thing. Never ask Canker for anything, unless it’s what you wish to be rid of.  Tell Brooke you’re for guard, and he’s to go to town instead.”

“Hopping mad,” as he himself afterward expressed it, Colonel Canker had ridden over to “have it out” with the quartermaster who had ventured to comment on his methods, but the sight of the commanding general, standing alone at the entrance to his private tent, his pale face grayer than ever and a world of trouble in his eyes, compelled Canker to stop short.  Two or three orderlies were on the run.  Two aides-de-camp, Mr. Garrison and a comrade were searching through desks and boxes, their faces grave and concerned.  The regimental commander was off his horse in a second.  “Anything amiss, General?” he asked, with soldierly salute.

The General turned slowly toward him.  “Can our men sell letters,” he said, “as well as food and forage?  Do people buy such things?  A most important package has been ­stolen from my tent.”