“Yes, sir. You see, they wouldn’t have me on account of my eyes. Myopia they called it. I tried to get in twice, Mr. Loring, but I couldn’t wangle it. I don’t think folks were so unreasonable on this side, sir, but over there in England they made it frightfully uncomfortable for chaps like me. Slackers they called us, and worse than that, Mr. Loring. I couldn’t stand it after a bit, and I came over here. But that’s got nothing to do with what I started to tell you. After I’d been here about three years I happened down the avenue in New York, sir, and there was a gentleman, a British officer in uniform, making a speech from a platform. In Madison Square it was, I believe. Well, sir, I listened to him for quite a while. He spoke well. Told about what the Tommies and the others had to go through in the trenches, and put it fairly strong, sir. You understand, Mr. Loring, he was speaking for one of the Liberty Bond drives, as they called them. Well, sir, he put it over nicely, and there was a lot that heard him that dug right down on the spot. I remember there was a placard behind him that said ‘Give Till It Hurts!’ and he turned to it and said, ‘That’s the idea, men! Give till it hurts! Not you, mind! It’s not you it will hurt! It’s the enemy! Every dollar you loan to your Government hurts him! And you’ve got to go on hurting him until he can’t stand it any longer! Give till it hurts!’ Well, sir, maybe those weren’t his exact words, but they’re like what he said, and they hit hard, Mr. Loring. I’d bought two bonds, but I stepped up and I took another one, sir!” “And that was Mr. Cooper!” exclaimed Loring. “Yes, sir, that was him. A fine looking soldier he looked, too, Mr. Loring, and not till he’d finished his speech did I see that he had to use a crutch to walk back to the chair, sir.” “He’d been wounded, eh? Gee, that’s interesting! And I’m sort of relieved, Wattles, because I rather gathered from the way you spoke that when you saw him before he wasn’t――well, that there was something a bit off-color about him.” “Yes, Mr. Loring, I felt that way about it myself; rather as if the gentleman was connected with some unpleasant incident. Memory’s a very odd thing, sir. You see, I didn’t want to buy that bond; leastways, I did and I didn’t, Mr. Loring, if you understand me. I thought I couldn’t afford it, sir, but then, talking like he did, I couldn’t help buying it. Maybe I had that in my mind, do you see? Not wanting to buy that bond and him just making me! Likely, Mr. Loring, that was where the unpleasantness――er――came into it!” “Wattles,” chuckled Loring, “you’re a scream.” “Yes, sir,” replied Wattles. “The other leg, please, sir.” CHAPTER XXII THE FINAL GAME