Adventure, November 1915 — page 77: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

> whe ts th <a md — a ae . ~ = ann ae, Aaa foe The Road’s End liberty and the flag, that’s what this uni- form stands for. That’s why no man that wears it is free, for he zs the flag, and his honor is the flag’s honor. A civilian can do what he likes with his own; but one soldier’s disgrace is all soldiers’ disgrace, and the uniform’s and the flag’s. I kind of like you, Haskell, and we came out together—and I may be wrong, but that’s the way I see things.” Herein, if Haskell had but known it, Doran was offering him the full product of his soul-searchings through many years. But Haskell’s eyes were turned the other way. Doran’s words were maudlin, and his continued advances after rebuffs were but proofs of servility. And what time Haskell had to spare from his duties, which he con- sidered over strenuous, from his oft re- peated complaints at the food and the quar- ters and the general management of the guard, and from his mental wrestlings with the problem of escape from all these things, he spent more pleasantly in chuckling over the prospect of Doran’s coming discom- fiture. For something was the matter with Doran. He would not admit it, even to himself; but never before in all his years of service had the guards seemed so hard, the drills so trying, the hikes so long. For that matter the hikes tried everybody; between twenty-five and thirty miles in heavy marching order between morning and evening meal is not a stint for a weakling. Doran did not drop out from any of them— though there were others that did—but it was plain he often came near dropping down. His feet would drag, his face grow drawn and white, and several times he was able to mount hills only by lending the strength of his arms to his weakening legs, helping his knees to straighten by the pressure of his hands. But his head was always up and his back straight, especially when he marched back into the garrison ‘under the eyes of the colonel. BUT the colonel had eyes, or he would never have attained his colonelcy. He was watching Doran. One day he spoke to the adjutant. “The service is\a hard taskmaster,”’ he said. “I see something I’ll have to do, now or soon; and yet I really believe that to do it will fall little short of murder.” “Doran?” hazarded the adjutant. ae ee na ee Oe Bie 2 eS 79 “So you’ve noticed it too. It’s impera- tive, I guess. He must be made to retire. As for his taking charge of the range—”’ the colonel shrugged his shoulders—“‘T wouldn’t mind it so much if I hadn’t half promised him the detail. He was my coach in Ports- mouth, you know, four years ago, and the best I had. And I didn’t notice at first how much he’d failed.”’ “Strange how those old fellows cling to the service, isn’t it?”’ “As in my own case,’ commented the colonel grimly. ‘‘You’ll never find any but a young man saying that. After you’ve served a lifetime with the colors—but we can’t retain inefficients. [’m afraid Doran’s got to go.” A few days later that happened that seemed to justify. the colonel’s decision. The week-end hike was a little longer, the sun a little hotter; and Sergeant Doran tottered through the sally-port at the head of his section, came to a staggering halt, dragged up his rifle, opened and closed chambers, and collapsed at the command “Company dismissed!” He was carried to the sick-bay, where the surgeon and hospital apprentices worked over him for several hours, finally pro- — nounced him out of danger, and sent him to his quarters. Also the surgeon sent a memo. to the commanding officer’s office, excusing Doran from all hikes, and placing him on light duty. ~The colonel, grateful for being relieved of an unpleasant duty, postponed the matter of retirement, and created for Doran’s especial benefit a new billet, that of second rifle-coach, assistant to Sergeant Nichols, detailed that day as coach. What that order meant to Doran, the destruction of all his hopes, the tangible evidence in black and white that he was no longer what he had been, no longer to be trusted with an important duty—the ob- vious forerunner, indeed, of another order which would banish him forever from the only world he knew, the life and work of the Service—no man but one in Doran’s posi- tion, who has put up Doran’s fight, can en- tirely understand. He slumped when he read it, like a man mortally wounded; his shoulders drooped forward. ‘Then he braced himself, for the eyes of the squad-room were on him. But when he told the news to Sergeant Stone half an hour later, his voice was still hollow. COMIC OOOKS (E@)