If I told them all the truth about her, one section of this truth ought to make up for the other; her trying to warn Teverson, and taking the risk she ran, surely was full compensation for her passing “the queer.” I felt that; but not being certain that others would so judge, I kept to myself what I knew. And I kept her to myself, too. I had her in a cab; and this was no stray taxi, you may be sure. This was certain to go where I ordered it; and the number I gave was that of my friend on the Avenue. “We can both go there and stay,” I said. “That’s one use for friends.” “No,” said Doris. “Not for me.” “Oh, yes,” I said; and, being alone with her in the back of that taxi, I firmly and forcibly held her. Also I kissed her, several times. “Don’t!” She fought with me; and furiously, too. “I love you,” I repeated to her. “And you love me. God knows why, but you kissed me in that closet; and you----” She told me then and there that none of that counted. She had thought we were going to be killed, you see, or she never would have shown any interest in me. Now we weren’t killed, she said; and certainly that was true. We’d have to go back to our own lines, me to the bean business and she to “shoving the queer.” “You can’t do that,” I told her. “Why not?” she came back at me. “You’ve no more of the queer to shove. Your father’s taken.” “And you’re glad of that!” she accused me. “I’m not glad!” I denied. “I’d do anything to free him.” “You wouldn’t shove the queer with me!” she retorted. “Didn’t I do it--just about?” “But you didn’t want to. You didn’t like it!” “I never liked anything so much as that trip on the train, except when I had you later.” “Well, that’s over now!” she said. “I guess not. You and I have just started!” “We’ve not....” That’s how we argued in that cab. I was wild about her; she did love me; and after a while I made her remember it. Naturally we had quite a time; we’d just been under rather a strain together. I took her to my friend’s that night; and the second day I took her to the Church Around the Corner and married her. I waited till the second day so Jerry could be best man. Jerry has not yet gone back to the bean business; I think he never will return. One of many results of his finding Keeban is that Jerry found his mother--an old woman who, when she was young, had twin boys one of whom wandered away; and for twenty-five years she has known only the one who turned to crime. Now she knows Jerry; he knows her. Naturally he’s bewildered a bit about his future. I am back in the bean business; that’s where I belong. I’m at my desk. I’ve returned. But I’ve returned rather like the soldier Kipling sings about who returned to Hackensack “but not the same.” And I’m not the same for a similar reason. “Things ’ave transpired which made me learn, The size and meanin’ of the game.”