IN March, 1916, Sergt. Peter Starkley got back to his own country, bigger in the chest and an inch taller than when he had gone away. He walked a little stiffly on his right foot, it is true--but what did that matter? His letters to the people at home had, by intention, given them only a vague idea of the possible date of his arrival. They knew that he was coming, that he was well, and that his new leg was such a masterpiece of construction that he had danced on it in London on two occasions. Otherwise he was unannounced. He went to the town of Stanley first and left his baggage in the freight shed at the siding. With his haversack on his shoulder and a stout stick in his right hand, he set out along the white and slippery road. Before he got to the bridge a two-horse sled overtook him, and the driver, an elderly man whom he did not know, invited him to climb on. Peter accepted the invitation with all the agility at his command. "You step a mite lame on your right leg," said the driver. "That's so," replied Peter, smiling. "Been soldierin', hey? See any fight-in'?" "Yes, I've been in Flanders." "That so? I've got a boy in the war. Smart boy, too. They give him a job right in England. He wears spurs to his boots, he does; and it ain't everyone kin wear them spurs, he writes me. This here war ain't all in Flanders. We had some shootin' round here about a year back out Pike's Settlement way. A young feller in soldier uniform was drivin' along, and some one shot at him from the woods. That's what _he_ said, but my boy--that was afore he went to the war--says like enough he shot himself so's to git out of goin'. He's a smart lad--that's why they give him a job in England. Army Service Corps, he is--so I reckon maybe he's right about that feller shootin' himself." "What's his name?" asked Peter quietly. "Starkley. Peter Starkley from Beaver Dam." "I'm asking the name of that smart son of yours." "Gus Todder's his name--Gus Todder, junior. Maybe you know him," was the reply. "No, but I've got his number," said Peter. "You tell him so in the next letter you write him. Tell him that Sergt. Peter Starkley of the 26th Canadian Infantry Battalion will be glad to see him when he comes home; tell him not to cut himself on those spurs of his in the meantime; and you'd better advise him to warn _his father_ not to shoot his mouth off in future to military men about things he is ignorant of. Here's where I get off. Thanks for the lift." Peter left the sled, but turned at the other's voice and stood looking back at him. "I didn't get the hang of all that you was sayin'," said Todder. He was plainly disconcerted. "Never mind; your son will catch the drift of it," replied Peter. "I am too happy about getting home to be fussy about little things, but don't chat quite so freely with every returned infantryman you see about your son's smartness. You call it smartness--but the fellows up where I left my right leg have another name for it."