The injustice rankled. He had heard of other men coming back to find their places occupied by indispensables, but it had never occurred to him that _his_ bosses would “welch” on their promise. He had never for an instant doubted, and yet when he was turned away he was not surprised. It seemed odd to him that he was not surprised. Perhaps it was because he had reached the point where nothing could surprise him. In any case, he strode out of the old familiar offices with his chin high, enjoying a very good opinion of himself and an extremely poor one of his late employers. It did not occur to him to feel the slightest uneasiness about the future. He would be no time at all in landing a good job with any one of the half dozen big concerns that had tried in vain to get him away from the V—— Company. He would take his month or two of idleness down in the old town, where he could realize on the dreams and the longings that had never ceased to attend him, awake or asleep, through all the black ages spent in France. This time there was no delegation at the station to meet him. Too many of Rumley’s young men had preceded him home from the war. He was no better than the rest of them and deserved no more. His father and Sammy Parr were waiting for him when the train pulled in. “By thunder, Oliver, it beats the dickens how you work into my plans so neatly,” cried the latter. “You always seem to be coming home at the right minute. You couldn’t have timed it better if you’d—oh, excuse me, Mr. Baxter, I forgot you hadn’t—er, here’s your father, Oliver.” Old Oliver came shuffling up from the background. He eyed his son narrowly. “What’s this, I hear about them not taking you back on your old job?” he demanded. He extended his hand, which young Oliver gripped in both of his. “Aren’t you glad to see me back, alive and well, dad?” he cried. “Not even scratched, or gassed or shell-shocked or anything. You act as though you—” “Of course, I’m glad you’re back, sonny—of course, I am. I’ve been praying for this ever since you went away. I don’t see how on earth you ever escaped being killed. I—I guess it wasn’t meant for you to die that way. Seems so, at any rate. But what did I tell you about them holding your job for you? What did I tell you? Didn’t I tell you just what would happen? Didn’t I say you’d never get it back? Didn’t I say you were a fool for giving up a seven thousand dollar job to go over and mix up in a war that wasn’t any of our business? Well, you see what’s happened. Just what I said would happen. Here you are, a grown man, out of a job and probably won’t be able to get one in God knows how long. I—” “Oh, I’m not down and out, you know, dad,” broke in young Oliver, slapping his father on the shoulder. “I’ve got quite a bunch of money in the bank and I’ve got my health and a few million dollars’ worth of brains left. So, cheer up! I’m not worrying. I learned a long time ago how to land on my feet—and that’s the way I’ll land this crack.”