Uncle Sam's Boys on Field Duty. Hancock Harrie Irving

guffaw. Then he thrust a hand into his pocket, producing the wallet. William Green pounced upon it with an exclamation of joy.

      "I wanted to string Greenie," explained Dowley hoarsely, "but Overton had to go to work and spoil it all."

      "The joke was in bad taste," observed Private Hyman quietly. "We don't want any work of that sort here, even for fun."

      "What I marvel at," remarked Hal innocently, "is how you did the thing in such a smooth, light-fingered way, Dowley."

      "Light fingered? You hound!" raged Dowley, his eyes blazing. "Do you mean that I did the trick with the skill of a crook?"

      He placed himself squarely before the young soldier, crowding him back and glaring into Overton's eyes.

      The other soldiers in the room found suddenly a new interest in the scene. Young Overton wasn't quarrelsome; he was the soul of good nature, in fact, but he knew how to fight when he had to do it.

      "Stop walking on my feet," counseled Hal, giving Dowley a slight push that sent him backward a step.

      "What did you mean?" insisted Dowley, who was working himself into a greater rage with every second.

      "It's time to ask what you mean," retorted Hal.

      "You called me a light-fingered crook, because I played a joke on Greenie," roared Dowley. "And I'm going to make you eat talk like that."

      "You're putting a wrong construction on my words," returned Hal quietly.

      "You called me a light-fingered crook, didn't you?" demanded Dowley hotly.

      "I spoke of your performance as a light-fingered trick."

      "That's the same thing," raged the older man.

      "Is it?"

      "Don't play baby, and don't crawfish," sneered Dowley, scowling. "You know what you meant."

      "And you seem to think you know, too."

      "We must break this up," whispered Private Hyman to Noll Terry, Hal Overton's soldier chum. "I don't want to see him get hurt."

      "What do you care about Dowley?" asked Noll, shrugging his shoulders.

      "Dowley be hanged!" retorted Hyman. "It's your kid friend I'm thinking about."

      "Oh, he won't get hurt," retorted Noll with cheery assurance.

      "Your friend is pretty handy with his fists, I know, but Dowley is a big fellow, an older man, with more fighting judgment; and I miss my guess if Dowley hasn't had a big lot of practice in rough-and-tumble in all the bad spots of life."

      "Will you take back and apologize for what you said?" insisted Dowley.

      "If I said anything I shouldn't have said," replied Hal quietly.

      "You're a liar, a cur and – "

      "Stop that!" objected Hal Overton, yet without raising his voice.

      "Apologize, then! Do it handsomely, too."

      "You've said too much to be entitled to any apology now," Hal assured the scowling soldier.

      "Apologize, or I'll – "

      "Going to start now?" Hal queried smilingly.

      "Yes, you – "

      Dowley made a rush, with both fists clenched. Hal nimbly sidestepped, putting up his own guard at the same time.

      "Attention!" shouted a soldier.

      Instantly both prospective combatants dropped their hands. The door of the squad-room had opened, and now there entered a young officer, handsome and resplendent in his new fatigue uniform. Unlike the khaki-clad enlisted men, this officer was attired in the blue uniform. Down the outer side of either leg of his trousers ran the broad white stripe of the commissioned officer of infantry. On his shoulders lay the plain shoulder strap, without bars or other device, proclaiming the young man to be a second lieutenant. He was a handsome young fellow of twenty-two, erect, fine of bearing and every inch of him an intense soldier.

      "Where is Sergeant Hupner?" asked Lieutenant Prescott. His glance, as he made the inquiry, appeared to be directed to Private Hal Overton.

      "I don't know, sir," Hal answered respectfully.

      "And neither of the corporals berthed in this squad room are present, either?"

      "No, sir."

      No displeasure was apparent in the young lieutenant's tone. There was no reason why the corporals, as well as the sergeant, should not be absent at this moment, if they chose. The officer's query was made only for the purpose of securing information.

      "You are Private Overton?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "When Sergeant Hupner returns be good enough to say to him that I wish to see him at my quarters. Any time before the call for parade will do."

      "Very good, sir."

      "If Private Overton is not here when Sergeant Hupner returns, any other man may deliver my message," continued Lieutenant Prescott. "That is all. Good afternoon, men."

      The young lieutenant turned and strode from the squad room.

      "Somehow," mused Private Hyman, "it takes West Point to turn out a real soldier, doesn't it? No matter how good a man is, or how long he spends in learning the soldier trade, he's never quite the same unless he has the West Point brand on him."

      "That's nothing to do with my affair," growled Private Dowley. "Now, Kid Overton, I'll attend to your case."

      "Oh, cut it, Dowley," grumbled Private Hyman. "Get out and keep out, or we'll find a blanket and give you a little excitement. Eh, boys?"

      "I'm going to polish off this kid for his insults to me," insisted Dowley sulkily.

      "Bring the blanket, boys," muttered Hyman wearily.

      From several of the men came a gleeful whoop as they started in various directions. It looked like business of a different sort now, and Dowley was not too blind to see it.

      "Oh, all right, if you're all going to butt in to save this kid doughbaby from his just deserts. But he'll get his later on," snarled Private Dowley.

      "I'm all ready now. There's no time like the present," smiled Hal.

      But two of the soldiers were coming back with blankets. There's not an atom of fun – for the victim – in being tossed in a blanket, so Dowley started for the door.

      It banged behind him. Two minutes later it banged again, this time closing on big Private Bill Hooper.

      "Birds of a feather – you all know the rest," chuckled Private Hyman, winking at some of his comrades in B Company. A general laugh answered.

      "Why didn't you let Dowley have his fun?" asked Private Hal Overton good-humoredly.

      "Because, Hal," replied Hyman, "Dowley is a big, ugly, dangerous man. You're spunky; you're all grit, and I don't know any kid who can handle himself as well as you do. But Dowley is in another class."

      "You'll do well, after this, Hal," murmured Noll Terry, when the chums were by themselves at one end of the room, "to keep your eyes open. I shall do the same."

      "Why?" Overton wanted to know.

      "Well, you've made an enemy of Dowley."

      "Perhaps."

      "Don't treat it as lightly as that," warned Noll Terry with great earnestness. "Dowley isn't a man to forget even a fancied injury. You noticed that Bill Hooper went out soon after Dowley, didn't you?"

      "Yes; but what of it?"

      "Hooper hates you; he has hated you for a long time, and Dowley has just learned to hate you. Now, you may be sure those two birds of a feather will flock together."

      "Let 'em," laughed Hal indifferently.

      "For what purpose will they flock together?" persisted Noll. "They now have a common interest in making life miserable for you."

      "Just for my one remark to Dowley?" smiled Hal.

      "I tell you Dowley