those damnable Pollyanna optimists he so abominated--the kind who went
about saying continually that God was in His heaven and all was right with
the world. No, indeed! He was just a normal, regular fellow, ready to face
a difficult situation when it came about as the natural result of a series
of events. He saw the impending catastrophe as the logical finale of many
happenings--for some of which he was not in any way responsible.

Who could have foreseen the Great War, for instance? Surely _that_ was not
his fault! A pitiful archduke was murdered in a European city. He
remembered reading about it, and then instantly dismissing it from his mind
as of no consequence. He never connected himself with so remote an event.
Yet a few years later he, with many others, was fighting in France--a
lieutenant in the United States Army--just because a shot had been fired at
a man he had never heard of!

A strange world, he pondered, as he looked out over the blue hills, heavy
with heat, and meandering away to God knows where.

Then, surely it was no fault of his if the Government under which he lived
made no strenuous effort to stop the Mexican massacres of American citizens
all along the border. One firm word, one splendid gesture, and daring raids
would have ceased; and there would have been no menace of bandits
hereabouts. It would have been a country fit to live in. There would have
developed a feeling of permanence and peace, and a young chap could have
made his plans for the future with some sense of security and high
optimism. Surely they were entitled to protection--these brave boys and
stalwart sons of America who fearlessly took up claims, staked all, and
strove to make homes in this thrilling section along the borderland. They
were not mere adventurers; they were pioneers. They were of the best stuff
that America contained--clean-cut, clear-eyed, with level heads and high