Capt. Starkley-Davenport had power. Warbroken and propped between his crutch and stick, still he was powerful. A spirit big enough to animate three strong men glowed in his weak body, and he went after the medical officers, nursing sisters and V. A. D.'s of that hospital like a lieutenant general looking for trouble. He saw that Peter received every attention, and then that every other man in the hospital received the same--and yet he was as polite as your maiden aunt. Several medical officers, including a colonel, jumped on him--figuratively speaking--only to jump back again as if they had landed on spikes. As soon as he regarded Peter as fit to be moved he took him to his own house. There the queer servants waited on Peter day and night in order of seniority. They addressed him as "Sergt. Peter, sir." Over in Flanders things had bumped and smashed along much as usual since Christmas morning. Mr. Scammell had read his promotion in orders and the London Gazette, had put up his third star and had gone to brigade as staff captain, Intelligence; and David Hammer, with the acting rank of sergeant major, carried on in command of the battalion scouts. Hiram Sill had been awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal for his work on Christmas morning and the two chevrons of a corporal for his work in general. A proud man was Corp. Sill, with that ribbon on his chest. The changes and chances of war had also touched Dick Starkley and Frank Sacobie. Lieut. Smith had persuaded Dick to leave the scouts and become his platoon sergeant; Sacobie was made an acting sergeant--and the night of that very day, while he was displaying his new chevrons in No Man's Land, he received a wound in the neck that put him out of the line for two weeks. Henry Starkley--a captain now--managed to visit the battalion about twice a month. It was in the fire trench that he found Dick one mild and sunny morning of the last week of February. The brothers grinned affectionately and shook hands. "Peter has sailed for home, wooden leg and all," said Henry. "I got a letter yesterday from Jack Davenport. Except for the sneaking Hun submarines, Peter is fairly safe now." "I hope he makes the farm," said Dick. "He was homesick for it every minute and working out crop rotations on the backs of letters every night, in the line and out--except when he was fighting." "There was something about you in Jack's letter. He says that offer still stands, and he seems as anxious as ever about it." Dick sat down on the fire step, thrust out his muddy feet on the duck boards and gazed at them. He scratched himself meditatively in several places. "I'd like fine to be an officer," he said at last. "Almost any one would. But I don't want to leave this bunch just now. Jack's crowd will want officers in six months just as much as now--maybe more; and if I'm lucky--still in fighting shape six months from now--I'll be better able to handle the job."