Where were you? What division? When did you get back? How many times over the length and breadth of North America were those questions being asked and answered in 1919? "Months ago--last of September," Andy said. "The idea was that I should bear a hand getting draftees into shape at Hastings Park, since I was classified as unfit for front-line service. But I haven't done much. Flu knocked me out in November. They'll can me pretty soon, I hope. It's easy to get into the army, but hell to get out, even when they don't need you any longer." "The tribal instinct won out, eh?" Rod smiled. "For a downright rebel you seem to have got on in the army." "I'm still a rebel," Andy returned. "The war would have made me one if I hadn't been before. Still, when you are fool enough to volunteer for a job, you can't very well lie down on it. There were times when I felt like it, though. It was a dirty job, eh?" "Rather," Rod agreed. "Remember the time we had a drink in the Strand and talked about the big show?" Andy nodded. "I was thinking about that as I came past the _Province_," he drawled. "If it were worth while expressing an opinion, I'd say the same--only more so." "Let's stroll up to the Vancouver and sit down and gas awhile?" Rod suggested. They found comfortable chairs in a quiet corner of the great hotel. Their talk covered Europe, politics, certain phases of trench fighting, and came back at last from generalities tinged with pessimism to the particular, to themselves. "What are you going to do after you're demobilized?" Rod asked. It was not, on his part, an idle question. "I don't know." Andy shook his head. "I'll never sling cable again, that's sure. You need all your fingers for that." His eyes rested speculatively on the mutilated hand.