“Peter is such a splendid man, isn't he?” said her young companion, lowering her voice. “So much more willing and agreeable than old Crosby. We're all so glad the change was made.” “He is most efficient,” said Mrs. Carstairs. The admirable Peter approached Mr. Carstairs and Zimmerlein, who were pouring drinks for themselves at the table. “Preparedness is the word of the hour,” Carstairs was saying, as he raised his glass. “It's a long, cold ride home.” “Excuse me, gentlemen, shall I call up Central at Bushleigh and see if they can give us any news!” asked Peter. “You might try. I don't believe you can get a connection, however. Everything must be knocked galley-west over on that side of the ridge.” “I think your wife is signalling you, Carstairs,” said Zimmerlein, looking over the other's shoulder. Carstairs tossed off the contents of the glass, and reached out his hand for the check. Zimmerlein already had it in his fingers. '“I'll sign it, old chap,” he said. “Give me your pencil, Peter.” “None of that, Zimmie. I ordered the--” “Run along, old man, your wife--He's coming, Mrs. Carstairs,” called out Zimmerlein. As Carstairs turned away, Zimmerlein scratched his name across the check, and handed it back to the steward. “Under no circumstances are you to call up Bushleigh,” fell in low, distinct tones from his lips. “Do you understand?” Peter's hand shook. His face was livid. “Yes, sir,” he muttered. “What shall I say to Mr. Carstairs?” “Say that no one answers,” said the other, and walked away. The company had recovered its collective and individual power of speech. Every one was talking,--loudly, excitedly, and in some cases violently. Some were excoriating the Germans, others were bitterly criticizing the Government for its over-tenderness, and still others were blaming themselves for not taking the law in their own hands and making short work of the “soap-boxers,” the “pacifists,” and the “obstructionists.” Little Mr. Cribbs was the most violent of them all. He was for organizing the old-time Vigilantes, once so efficacious in the Far West, and equipping them with guns and ropes and plenty of tar and feathers. “Nothing would please me more than to lead such a gang,” he proclaimed. “Lead 'em right into these foul nests where----What's that, Judge?” “I repeat--How old are you, Cribbs?” “Oh, I guess I'm old enough to shoot a gun, or pull a rope or carry a bucket of tar,” retorted the young man. “I'll put it the other way. How young are you?” “I'm twenty-nine.” “I see. And how did you escape the draft?” “They haven't reached my number yet,” said Mr. Cribbs, with dignity. “Well, that's good. There's still hope,” said the Judge, grimly. “They need just such fire-eaters as you over there in France with Pershing.” Carstairs turned to Zimmerlein, who was being helped into his fur-coat by one of the attendants. “Can't we take you to the city, Zimmerlein? There is plenty of room in the car.”