The perfect form of the reply delighted the father. He could not endure blatancy; his admiration was to be won only by a bashful hero. Now he beat his hand impulsively down upon the table. "That's what I wanted to know. That's it exactly. I'll have you made a Major next week. You've found your proper field at last. You stick to the Army, Caspar, and I'll back you up. That's the thing. In a few years it will be a great career. The United States is pretty sure to have an Army of about a hundred and fifty thousand men. And starting in when you did and with me to back you up--why, we'll make you a General in seven or eight years. That's the ticket. You stay in the Army." The Senator's cheek was flushed with enthusiasm, and he looked eagerly and confidently at his son. But Caspar had pulled a long face. "The Army?" he said. "Stay in the Army?" The Senator continued to outline quite rapturously his idea of the future. "The Army, evidently, is just the place for you. You know as well as I do that you have not been a howling success, exactly, in anything else which you have tried. But now the Army just suits you. It is the kind of career which especially suits you. Well, then, go in, and go at it hard. Go in to win. Go at it." "But--" began Caspar. The Senator interrupted swiftly. "Oh, don't worry about that part of it. I'll take care of all that. You won't get jailed in some Arizona adobe for the rest of your natural life. There won't be much more of that, anyhow; and besides, as I say, I'll look after all that end of it. The chance is splendid. A young, healthy and intelligent man, with the start you've already got, and with my backing, can do anything--anything! There will be a lot of active service--oh, yes, I'm sure of it--and everybody who----" "But," said Caspar, wan, desperate, heroic, "father, I don't care to stay in the Army." The Senator lifted his eyes and darkened. "What?" he said. "What's that?" He looked at Caspar. The son became tightened and wizened like an old miser trying to withhold gold. He replied with a sort of idiot obstinacy, "I don't care to stay in the Army." The Senator's jaw clinched down, and he was dangerous. But, after all, there was something mournful somewhere. "Why, what do you mean?" he asked gruffly. "Why, I couldn't get along, you know. The--the----" "The what?" demanded the father, suddenly uplifted with thunderous anger. "The what?" Caspar's pain found a sort of outlet in mere irresponsible talk. "Well, you know--the other men, you know. I couldn't get along with them, you know. They're peculiar, somehow; odd; I didn't understand them, and they didn't understand me. We--we didn't hitch, somehow. They're a queer lot. They've got funny ideas. I don't know how to explain it exactly, but--somehow--I don't like 'em. That's all there is to it. They're good fellows enough, I know, but----"