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Page 8
Presently the papers were cast aside, the bowed shoulders in the
splendidly-cut blue-serge uniform squared back in the chair, and Redmond
found himself being scrutinized intently by the all-familiar bronzed old
aristocratic countenance, with its sweeping fair moustache.
Involuntarily he stiffened, though his eyes, momentarily overpowered by
the intensity of that keen gaze, strayed to the level of his superior's
breast and focussed themselves upon two campaign ribbons there,
"North-West Rebellion" and "Ashantee" decorations.
Suddenly the thin, high, cultured voice addressed
him--whimsically--sarcastic but not altogether unkindly:
"The Sergeant-Major"--the gold-rimmed pince-nez were swung to an
elevation indicating that individual and the fair moustache was twirled
pensively--"the Sergeant-Major reports that--er--for the past six months
you have been conducting yourself around the Post with fair average"--the
suave tones hardened--"that you have wisely refrained from indulging your
youthful fancies in any more such--er--dam-fool antics, Sir, as
characterized your merry but brief career at the Gleichen detachment,
so--er--I have decided to give you another chance. I have here"--he
fumbled through some papers--"a request from Sergeant Slavin for another
man at Davidsburg. I am transferring you there. Slavin--er--damn the
man! damn the man! what's wrong with him, Sergeant-Major? . . . Two men
have I sent him in as many months, and both of 'em, after a few days
there, on some flimsy pretext or another, applied for transfers to other
detachments. Good men, too. If this occurs again--damme!"--he glared at
his subordinate--"I'll--er--bring that Irish 'ginthleman' into the Post
for a summary explanation. Wire him of this man's transfer! . . . All
right, Sergeant-Major!"
"About-turrn!--quick-march!" growled again the bass voice of the senior
non-com; and he kept step behind George into the passage. "Here's your
transport requisition, Redmond. Now--take a tumble to yourself, my
lad--on this detachment. You're getting what 'Father' don't give to
many--a second chance. Good-bye!"
George gripped the proffered hand and looked full into the kindly,
meaning eyes. "Good-bye, S.M.!" he said huskily, "Thanks!"
Westward, the train puffed its way slowly along a slight, but continual
up-grade through the foothills, following more or less the winding course
of the Bow River. Despite the cold, clear brilliance of the day, seen
under winter conditions the landscape on either side of the track
presented a rather forlorn, dreary picture. So it appeared to George,
anyway, as he gazed out of the window at the vast, spreading,
white-carpeted valley, the monotonous aspect of which was only
occasionally relieved by sparsely-dotted ranches, small wayside stations,
or when they thundered across high trestle bridges over the
partly-frozen, black, steaming river.
Two summers earlier he had travelled the same road, on a luxurious trip
to the Coast. The memory of its scenic splendor then, the easy-going
stages from one sumptuous mountain resort to another, now made him feel
slightly dismal and discontented with his present lot. Eye-restful
solace came however with the sight of the ever-nearing glorious
sun-crowned peaks of the mighty "Rockies," sharply silhouetted against
the dazzling blue of the sky.
Children's voices behind him suddenly broke in upon his reverie.
"That man!" said a small squeaking treble, "was a hobo. He was sitting
in that car in front with the hard seats an' I went up to him an' I said,
'Hullo, Mister! why don't you wash your face an' shave it? we've all
washed our faces this morning' . . . . We did, didn't we, Alice?--an'
washed Porkey's too, an' he said 'Hullo, Bo! wash my face?--I don't have
to--I might catch cold.'"
"But Jerry!" said another child's voice, "I don't think he could have
been a real hobo, or he'd have had an empty tomato-can hanging around his
neck on a string, like the pictures of 'Weary Willie' an' 'Tired Tim' in
the funny papers."
Then ensued the sounds as of a juvenile scuffle and squawk. Master Jerry
apparently resented having his pet convictions treated in this "Doubting
Thomas" fashion, for the next thing George heard him say, was:
"Goozlemy, goozlemy, goozlemy! . . . No! he hadn't got a tomato-can,
silly! but he'd got a big, fat bottle in his pocket an' he pulled the
cork out of it an' sucked an' I said 'What have you got in your bottle?'
an' he said 'Cold tea' but it didn't smell a bit like cold tea. There's
a Mounted Policeman sitting in that seat in front of us. Let's ask him.
Policemen always lock hoboes up in gaol an' kick them in the stomach,
like you see them in the pictures."
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