It did not take long for the news of Morosco’s contemplated resignation to filter through the rank and file of Company E. And every one assumed, as McCormack had done, that Brownell would go up, and that Barriscale would get a commission. There was no excitement concerning it, and little discussion. The second lieutenant was popular, and the enlisted men of the company were pleased with the contemplation of his prospective advancement. But Barriscale had not yet touched the popular heart, and, although no one criticized his qualities as a soldier or his efficiency as an orderly sergeant, at the same time no one became enthusiastic over the idea of his promotion. There was no outspoken opposition to his advancement among the men in the ranks; but one hanger-on of the company was not pleased with the outlook and did not hesitate to give expression to his thought. This was Chick Dalloway. He had never forgotten the night in the stack-room when both he and McCormack had suffered from young Barriscale’s abuse. He had not yet ceased to ridicule the elder Barriscale’s proposition to establish a fund for a prize, nor had he yet condoned the offense of which he believed the millionaire to be guilty in connection with Hal’s loss of his position at the bank. Moreover, his heart still burned with resentment whenever he thought of the indignity that had been placed upon his friend and mentor on the evening of Donatello’s ejectment from the armory. It was, therefore, in no pleasant mood that on the night when the news of Morosco’s contemplated resignation first reached his ears, he walked down the street toward the place he called his home. It was after drill; he had been at the armory; and ahead of him was a group of a half-dozen members of the company dressed in uniform, going in the same direction with him. They appeared to be in high spirits, they were talking and laughing freely, and, as they marched along, they began to sing one of the war songs made popular by the British troops on the western front. For some reason, which he did not stop to dissect, their gayety seemed to jar on Chick’s particular mood, and he decided to change his course at the next corner, and lengthen his journey home by the distance of a block. But, as he turned eastward, he discovered, lying in front of him on the pavement, in the full light of the electric street lamp, what appeared to be a letter. He picked it up and examined it. It was an unsealed and unstamped envelope, bearing on its face only the word “Miss.” Evidently the writer had been interrupted in his task of addressing the letter, and had laid it aside, intending to add other words later; or else, having got that far toward identifying the intended recipient of the missive, he had, for some unknown reason, changed his mind. The one preliminary word, however, was in a man’s hand, and the envelope was not empty.