He polished his buttons and badges every morning and rolled his putties as if for parade. The smartness of his carriage gave a distinction even to the unlovely khaki service uniform of a British noncommissioned officer. He looked like a guardsman and felt like a schoolboy who dreaded the approaching term. He haunted the barns and stables of the home farm and of his own place and tramped the snow-laden woods and blanketed fields. In spite of his efforts to think only of the harsh and foreign task before him, he dreamed of clearings here and crops there. The keen, kindly eyes of his parents saw through to his heart. One day of the six he spent in the village of Stanley. He called first at Hammond's store, where he tried to give Mr. Hammond the impression that he had dropped in casually, but as he had nothing to sell and did not wish to buy anything he failed to hoodwink the storekeeper. Mr. Hammond was cordial, but seemed worried. He complimented Peter on his promotion and his soldierly appearance. "Glad you got home," he said. "Wish Jim could have come along with you, but he writes as how they won't give him a pass. Seems to me it ain't more than only fair to let all the boys come home for Christmas or New Year's." "Then there wouldn't be any one left to carry on," said Peter. "They've fixed it so that those who have been longest on the job get the first passes; but I guess every one will get home for a few days before we sail." "Jim says the training--the drill and all that--is mighty hard," continued Mr. Hammond. "Some find it so, and some don't," replied Peter awkwardly. "I guess it's what you might call a matter of taste." "Like enough," said the storekeeper, scratching his chin. "It's a matter of taste--and not to Jim's taste, that's sure." Peter felt relieved to see that Mr. Hammond seemed to understand the case. He was about to elaborate on the subject of military training when a middle-aged man wearing a bowler hat and a fur-lined overcoat turned from the counter. He had a square, clean-shaven face and very bright and active black eyes. "Excuse me, corporal," the stranger said, "but may I horn in and inquire what you think of it yourself?" "You can ask if you want to, Mr. Sill," said Mr. Hammond, "but you won't hear any kick out of Peter Starkley, whether he likes it or not." "It's easier than working in the woods, either chopping or teaming," said Peter pleasantly, "and I'll bet a dollar it is a sight easier than the real fighting will be." "That's the way to look at it, corporal," said the stranger. "I guess that in a war like this a man has to make up his mind to take the fun and the ferocity, the music and the mud, and the pie and the pain, just as they come." "I guess so," said Peter. The stranger shook his hand cordially and just before he turned away remarked, "Maybe you and I will meet again sooner than you expect." "Who is he, and what's he driving at?" asked Peter, when the stranger had left the store.