And that was the way Carfax ended--a tiny tragedy of incompetence compared to the mountainous official fiasco at Gallipoli. Here, a few perished among the filthy salamanders in the snow; there, thousands died in the burning Turkish gorse---- ------------------ But that’s history; and its makers are already officially damned. But now concerning two others of the fed-up dozen on board the mule transport--Harry Stent and Jim Brown. Destiny linked arms with them; Fate jerked a mysterious thumb over her shoulder toward Italy. Chance detailed them for special duty as soon as they landed. It was a magnificent sight, the disembarking of the British overseas military force sent secretly into Italy. They continued to disembark and entrain at night. Nobody knew that British troops were in Italy. The infernal uproar along the Isonzo never ceased; the din of the guns resounded through the Trentino, but British and Canadian noses were sniffing at something beyond the Carnic Alps, along the slopes of which they continued to concentrate, Rifles, Kilties, and Gunners. There seemed to be no particular hurry. Details from the Canadian contingent were constantly sent out to familiarize themselves with the vast waste of tunneled mountains denting the Austrian sky-line to the northward; and all day long Dominion reconnoitering parties wandered among valleys, alms, forest, and peaks in company sometimes with Italian alpinists, sometimes by themselves, prying, poking, snooping about with all the emotionless pertinacity of Teuton tourists preoccupied with _wanderlust_, _kultur_, and _ewigkeit_. And one lovely September morning the British Military Observer with the Italian army, and his very British aid, sat on a sunny rock on the Col de la Reine and watched a Canadian northward reconnaissance--nothing much to see, except a solitary moving figure here and there on the mountains, crawling like a deerstalker across ledges and stretches of bracken--a few dots on the higher slopes, visible for a moment, then again invisible, then glimpsed against some lower snow patch, and gone again beyond the range of powerful glasses. "The Athabasca regiment, 13th Battalion," remarked the British Military Observer; "lively and rather noisy." "Really," observed his A. D. C. "Sturdy, half-disciplined beggars," continued the B. M. O., watching the mountain plank through his glasses; "every variety of adventurer in their ranks--cattlemen, ranchmen, Hudson Bay trappers, North West police, lumbermen, mail carriers, bear hunters, Indians, renegade frontiersmen, soldiers of fortune--a sweet lot, Algy." "Ow." "--And half of ’em unruly Yankees--the most objectionable half, you know." "A bad lot," remarked the Honorable Algy. "Not at all," said the B. M. O. complacently; "I’ve a relative of sorts with ’em--leftenant, I believe--a Yankee brother-in-law, in point of fact." "Ow."