For Bob Haskell there was no returning consciousness and only the silent records of the War Department could speak for him, reporting his supreme sacrifice under a name but a part of which was his own. That he lived in camp as his brother for at least a few hours in that time of unquestioning rush and inevitable disorder seems probable enough. That he fell in the fighting, under the name of Joseph Haskell, we know. So at least the uniform which he stole was not dishonored. And since he paid for his crime with his own life, and in the way that he preferred, may we not follow his brother's good example and let his checkered memory rest in peace? Joe never told his mother more than this, that it must have been his brother who was killed in France. She never knew who struck him down. Another episode is not so easily explained, for it is bound up with Joe Haskell's mental condition while he was with the scouts. That is the episode of the windmill. About that he seemed to remember but little. No doubt the calling of the voice which he thought was his mother's was a pure hallucination. It was like a little flash of light in his darkness. Yet it might have been that the peculiar sounds aroused certain memories. One very strange fact, however, is certain, and that is that he did find the trinket with his mother's picture on that lonely, wind-swept tower. The voice which had called him had not mocked and deceived him. How came that little trinket there? The only answer that we have to this question is the theory of Pee-wee Harris, wearer of the stalking badge, and, as his very nickname shows, the friend of birds. He claimed that a wren, or one of the mischievous, pilfering birds of that group had carried the locket to its nest in the old windmill. It is true that certain birds carry such glittering trifles to their nests and it is well known that wrens forage in old buildings and often build in windmills. There were a few wisps of straw to give color to Pee-wee's ingenious theory. But when it comes to building, Pee-wee himself is a master builder of castles in the air. And there you are. CHAPTER XXXIV SEEIN' THINGS On a certain fair day in the autumn Joshua Hicks stood in the doorway of the Hicksville post office and contemplated the chickens which were congregated on the store platform waiting for the mail. He looked as if he had been standing there uninterruptedly since we last saw him. His octagon-shaped spectacles were exactly half way down his nose, and his nose was just as long as it was on the day we made his acquaintance--if anything, a little longer. He was waiting for the big daily event in Hicksville, the arrival of the train. But a bigger event than that was to arouse Hicksville. When the train arrived a solitary figure got out, a young man with a suitcase, who waved his hand familiarly to Joshua and called, "Hello, Josh," as he strode away up the road.