"It's a good one," he had said. "My mother gave it to me. It has the
Mills scale."

And Annesley, the kid, who had made his lieutenant's commission so
unexpectedly, had broken in: "That's no shakes to the socks I've got on.
If somebody'll pull off my boots I'll show you. Made in Poughkeepsie. A
dozen pairs. _Not_ my mother."

Lance smiled wistfully. Since his own mother died, eight years ago, he
had drifted about unanchored, and though women had inevitably held out
hands to the tall and beautiful lad, they were not the sort he cared
for, and there had been none of his own sort in his life. Fate might so
easily have given him a chance to serve his country, with also, maybe,
just the common sweet things added which utmost every fellow had, and a
woman or two to give him a sendoff and to write him letters over there
sometimes. To be a soldier--and to be somebody's soldier! Why, these two
things would mean Heaven! And hundreds of thousands of American boys
had these and thought nothing of it. Fate certainly had been a bit
stingy with a chap, considered David Lance, smiling into his little fire
with a touch of wistful self-pity.

At this moment Fate, in smart, dark livery, knocked at his door. "Come
in," shouted Lance cheerfully.

The door opened and he stared. Somebody had lost the way. Chauffeurs in
expensive livery did not come to his hall bedroom. "Is dis yer Mr.
Lance?" inquired Jackson.

Lance admitted it and got the note and read it while Jackson, knowing
his Family intimately, knew that something pleasant and surprising was