"I guess you needn't worry, Wainwright. They can't make any transfers without sending them up to me, and you may be good and sure I'm not transferring anybody just now without a good reason, no matter who is asking it. He's in your company, is he? And where does he ask to be transferred? Just give me his name. I'll make a note of it. If it ever comes up I'll know how to finish him pretty suddenly. Though I doubt if it does. People are not pulling wires just now. This is _war_ and everything means business. However, if I find there has been wire-pulling I shall know how to deal with it summarily. It's a court-martial offense, you know." They passed on to other topics, and Wainwright with his little eyes gleaming triumphantly soon took himself out into the starlight knowing that he had done fifteen minutes' good work and not wishing to outdo it. He strolled contentedly back to officers' quarters wearing a more complacent look on his heavy features. He would teach John Cameron to ignore him! Meantime John Cameron with his head among the stars walked the dusty camp streets and forgot the existence of Lieutenant Wainwright. A glow of gratitude had flooded his soul at sight of his beloved captain, whom he hoped soon to be able to call _his_ captain. Unconsciously he walked with more self-respect as the words of confidence and trust rang over again in his ears. Unconsciously the little matters of personal enmity became smaller, of less importance, beside the greater things of life in which he hoped soon to have a real part. If he got this transfer it meant a chance to work with a great man in a great way that would not only help the war but would be of great value to him in this world after the war was over. It was good to have the friendship of a man like that, fine, clean, strong, intellectual, kind, just, human, gentle as a woman, yet stern against all who deviated from the path of right. The dusk was settling into evening and twinkling lights gloomed out amid the misty, dust-laden air. Snatches of wild song chorused out from open windows: She's my lady, my baby, She's cock-eyed, she's crazy. The twang of a banjo trailed in above the voices, with a sound of scuffling. Loud laughter broke the thread of the song leaving _"Mary Ann!"_ to soar out alone. Then the chorus took it up once more: All her teeth are false From eating Rochelle salts-- She's my freckled-faced, consumptive MARY ANN-N-N! Cameron turned in at the quiet haven of the Y.M.C.A. hut, glad to leave the babel sounds outside. Somehow they did not fit his mood to-night, although there were times when he could roar the outlandish gibberish with the best of them. But to-night he was on such a wonderful sacred errand bent, that it seemed as though he wanted to keep his soul from contact with rougher things lest somehow it might get out of tune and so unfit him for the task before him.