THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 Commodore Byron MoCandless
 
 JlE GLARED DEFIANTLY ABOUT HIM 
 
 p. 86
 
 THE FLAG 
 
 By 
 
 HOMER GREENE 
 
 Author ol 
 
 " Ike UnLallowed. Harvest " 
 "Pickett's Gap," "Tke Blind Brotker," etc. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
 GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO 
 
 PUBLISHERS .
 
 Copyright, 1917 
 George W. Jacobs $ Company 
 
 All rights reserved 
 Printed in U. S. A.
 
 ft 
 
 7 
 
 <~ 
 
 T 
 
 List of Illustrations 
 
 He Glared Defiantly About Him Frontispiece 
 
 Aleck Turned it Upside Down 
 and Rightside Up, But Failed 
 to Find the Place . Facing p. 54 
 
 Into the Face of Death He Led 
 the Remnant of His Brave 
 Platoon . . . . " 274 
 
 The French Hospital's Greeting 
 
 to the American Colonel " 316 
 
 957380
 
 THE FLAG 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 SNOW everywhere; freshly fallen, white and 
 beautiful. It lay unsullied on the village 
 roofs, and, trampled but not yet soiled, in the 
 village streets. The spruce trees on the lawn 
 at Bannerhall were weighted with it, and on 
 the lawn itself it rested, like an ermine blanket, 
 soft and satisfying. Down the steps of the 
 porch that stretched across the front of the 
 mansion, a boy ran, whistling, to the street. 
 
 He was slender and wiry, agile and sure- 
 footed. He had barely reached the gate when 
 the front door of the square, stately old brick 
 house was opened and a woman came out on 
 the porch and called to him. 
 
 "Pen!" 
 
 "Yes, Aunt Millicent." He turned to listen 
 to her. 
 
 "Pen, don't forget that your grandfather's
 
 2 THE FLAG 
 
 going to New York on the five-ten train, and 
 that you are to be at the station to see him 
 off." 
 
 "I won't forget, auntie." 
 
 "And then come straight home." 
 
 "Straight as a string, Aunt Milly." 
 
 "All right! Good-by!" 
 
 "Good-by!" 
 
 He passed through the gate, and down the 
 street toward the center of the village. It was 
 the noon recess and he was on his way back to 
 school where he must report at one-fifteen 
 sharp. He had an abundance of time, how- 
 ever, and he stopped in front of the post-office 
 to talk with another boy about the coasting on 
 Drake's Hill. It was while he was standing 
 there that some one called to him from the 
 street. Seated in an old-fashioned cutter 
 drawn by an old gray horse were an old man 
 and a young woman. The woman's face 
 flushed and brightened, and her eyes shone with 
 gladness, as Pen leaped from the sidewalk and 
 ran toward her. 
 
 "Why, mother!" he cried. "I didn't expect 
 to see you. Are you in for a sleigh-ride?"
 
 THE FLAG 3 
 
 She bent over and kissed him and patted 
 his cheek before she replied, 
 
 "Yes, dearie. Grandpa had to come to 
 town ; and it's so beautiful after the snow that 
 I begged to come along." 
 
 Then the old man, round-faced and rosy, 
 with a fringe of gray whiskers under his chin, 
 and a green and red comforter about his neck, 
 reached out a mittened hand and shook hands 
 with Pen. 
 
 "Couldn't keep her to hum," he said, "when 
 she seen me hitchin' up old Charlie." 
 
 He laughed good-naturedly and tucked the 
 buffalo-robe in under him. 
 
 "How's grandma?" asked Pen. 
 
 "Jest about as usual," was the reply. 
 "When you comin' out to see us?" 
 
 "I don't know. Maybe a week from Sat- 
 urday. I'll see." 
 
 Then Pen's mother spoke again. 
 
 "You were going to school, weren't you? 
 We won't keep you. Give my love to Aunt 
 Millicent; and come soon to see us." 
 
 She kissed him again ; the old man clicked to 
 his horse, and succeeded, after some effort, in
 
 4 THE FLAG 
 
 starting him, and Pen returned to the side- 
 walk and resumed his journey toward school. 
 
 It was noticeable that no one had spoken 
 of Colonel Butler, the grandfather with whom 
 Pen lived at Bannerhall on the main street of 
 Chestnut Hill. There was a reason for that. 
 Colonel Butler was Pen's paternal grandfa- 
 ther; and Colonel Butler's son had married 
 contrary to his father's wish. When, a few 
 years later, the son died, leaving a widow and 
 an only child, Penfield, the colonel had so far 
 relented as to offer a home to his grandson, 
 and to provide an annuity for the widow. She 
 declined the annuity for herself, but accepted 
 the offer of a home for her son. She knew 
 that it would be a home where, in charge of his 
 aunt Millicent, her boy would receive every 
 advantage of care, education and culture. So 
 she kissed him good-by and left him there, and 
 she herself, ill, penniless and wretched, went 
 back to live with her father on the little farm 
 at Cobb's Corners, five miles away. But all 
 that was ten years before, and Pen was now 
 fourteen. That he had been well cared for 
 was manifest in his clothing, his countenance,
 
 THE FLAG 5 
 
 his bearing and his whole demeanor as he hur- 
 ried along the partly swept pavement toward 
 his destination. 
 
 A few blocks farther on he overtook a 
 school-fellow, and, as they walked together, 
 they discussed the war. 
 
 For war had been declared. It had not only 
 been declared, it was in actual progress. 
 
 Equipped and generalled, stubborn and ag- 
 gressive, the opposing forces had faced each 
 other for weeks. Yet it had not been a san- 
 guinary conflict. Aside from a few bruised 
 shins and torn coats and missing caps, there 
 had been no casualties worth mentioning. It 
 was not a country-wide war. It was, indeed, 
 a war of which no history save this veracious 
 chronicle, gives any record. 
 
 The contending armies were composed of 
 boys. And the boys were residents, respec- 
 tively, of the Hill and the Valley; two villages, 
 united under the original name of Chestnut 
 Hill, and so closely joined together that it 
 would have been impossible for a stranger to 
 tell where one ended and the other began. 
 The Hill, back on the plateau, had the ad-
 
 6 THE FLAG 
 
 vantage of age and the prestige that wealth 
 gives. The Valley, established down on the 
 river bank when the railroad was built through, 
 had the benefit of youth and the virtue of ag- 
 gressiveness. Yet they were mutually inter- 
 dependent. One could not have prospered 
 without the aid of the other. When the new 
 graded-school building was erected, it was lo- 
 cated on the brow of the hill in order to ac- 
 commodate pupils from both villages. From 
 that time the boys who lived on the hill were 
 called Hilltops, and those who lived in the val- 
 ley were called Riverbeds. Just when the 
 trouble began, or what was the specific cause 
 of it, no one seemed exactly to know. Like 
 Topsy, it simply grew. With the first snow 
 of the winter came the first physical clash be- 
 tween the opposing forces of Hilltops and 
 Riverbeds. It was a mild enough encounter, 
 but it served to whet the appetites of the young 
 combatants for more serious warfare. Miss 
 Grey, the principal of the school, was troubled 
 and apprehensive. She had encouraged a 
 friendly rivalry between the two sets of boys 
 in matters of intellectual achievement, but she
 
 THE FLAG 7 
 
 greatly deprecated sueh a state of hostility as 
 would give rise to harsh feelings or physical 
 violence. She knew that it would be difficult, 
 if not impossible, to coerce them into peace and 
 harmony, so she set about to contrive some 
 method by which the mutual interest of the 
 boys could be aroused and blended toward the 
 accomplishment of a common object. 
 
 The procuring of an American flag for the 
 use of the school had long been talked of, and 
 it occurred to her now that if she could stimu- 
 late a friendly rivalry among her pupils, in an 
 effort to obtain funds for the purchase of a 
 flag, it might divert their minds from thoughts 
 of hostility to each other, into channels where 
 a laudable competition would be provocative 
 of harmony. So she decided, after consulta- 
 tion with the two grade teachers, to prepare 
 two subscription blanks, each with its proper 
 heading, and place them respectively in the 
 hands of Penfield Butler captain of the Hill- 
 tops, and Alexander Sands commander of the 
 Riverbeds. The other pupils would be in- 
 structed to fall in behind these leaders and see 
 which party could obtain, not necessarily the
 
 8 THE FLAG 
 
 most money, but the largest number of sub- 
 scriptions. She felt that interest in the flag 
 would be aroused by the numbers contributing 
 rather than by the amount contributed. It 
 was during the session of the school that after- 
 noon that she made the announcement of her 
 plan, and delivered the subscription papers to 
 the two captains. She aroused much enthusi- 
 asm by the little speech she made, dwelling on 
 the beauty and symbolism of the flag, and the 
 patriotic impulse that would be aroused and 
 strengthened by having it always in sight. 
 
 No one questioned the fact that Pen Butler 
 was the leader of the Hilltops, nor did any one 
 question the similar fact that Aleck Sands was 
 the leader of the Riverbeds. There had never 
 been any election or appointment, to be sure, 
 but, by common consent and natural selection, 
 these two had been chosen in the beginning as 
 commanders of the separate hosts. 
 
 When, therefore, the subscription blanks 
 were put into the hands of these boys as lead- 
 ers, every one felt that nothing would be left 
 undone by either to win fame and honor for 
 his party in the matter of the flag.
 
 THE FLAG 9 
 
 So, when the afternoon session of school 
 closed, every one had forgotten, for the time 
 being at least, the old rivalry, and was ready to 
 enlist heartily in the new one. 
 
 There was fine coasting that day on Drake's 
 Hill. The surface of the road-bed, hard and 
 smooth, had been worn through in patches, but 
 the snow-fall of the night before had so 
 dressed it over as to make it quite perfect for 
 this exhilarating winter sport. 
 
 As he left the school-house Pen looked at 
 his watch, a gift from his grandfather Butler 
 on his last birthday, and found that he would 
 have more than half an hour in which to enjoy 
 himself at coasting before it would be neces- 
 sary to start for the railroad station to see 
 Colonel Butler off on the train. So, with his 
 companions, he went to Drake's Hill. It was 
 fine sport indeed. The bobs had never before 
 descended so swiftly nor covered so long a 
 stretch beyond the incline. But, no matter 
 how fascinating the sport, Pen kept his engage- 
 ment in mind and intended to leave the hill in 
 plenty of time to meet it. There were especial 
 reasons this day why he should do so. In the
 
 10 THE FLAG 
 
 first place Colonel Butler would be away from 
 home for nearly a week, and it had always been 
 Pen's custom to see his grandfather off on a 
 journey, even though he were to be gone but 
 a day. And in the next place he wanted to be 
 sure to get Colonel Butler's name at the head 
 of his flag subscription list. This would doubt- 
 less be the most important contribution to be 
 made to the fund. 
 
 At half-past four he decided to take one more 
 ride and then start for the station. But on 
 that ride an accident occurred. The bobs on 
 which the boys were seated collapsed midway 
 of the descent, and threw the coasters into a 
 heap in the ditch. None of them was ser- 
 iously hurt, though the loose stones among 
 which they were thrown were not sufficiently 
 cushioned by the snow to prevent some bruises, 
 and abrasions of the skin. Of course there 
 was much confusion and excitement. There 
 was scrambling, and rubbing of hurt places, 
 and an immediate investigation into the cause 
 of the wreck. In the midst of it all Pen for- 
 got about his engagement. When the matter 
 did recur to his mind he glanced at his watch
 
 THE FLAG 11 
 
 and found that it lacked but twelve minutes of 
 train time. It would be only by hard sprint- 
 ing and rare good luck that he would be able 
 to reach the station in time to see his grand- 
 father off. Without a word of explanation 
 to his fellows he started away on a keen run. 
 They looked after him in open-mouthed won- 
 der. They could not conceive what had hap- 
 pened to him. One boy suggested that he had 
 been frightened out of his senses by the shock 
 of the accident ; and another that he had struck 
 his head against a rock and had gone tempo- 
 rarily insane, and that he ought to be followed 
 to see that he did no harm to himself. But no 
 one offered to go on such a mission, and, after 
 watching the runner out of sight, they turned 
 their attention again to the wrecked bobs. 
 
 Aleck Sands went straight from school to 
 his home in the valley. There were afternoon 
 chores to be done, and he was anxious to finish 
 them as soon as possible in order that he might 
 start out with his subscription paper. 
 
 He did not hope to equal Pen in the amount 
 of contributions, for he had no wealthy grand- 
 father on whom to depend, but he did intend
 
 12 THE FLAG 
 
 to excel him in the number of subscribers. 
 And it was desirable that he should be early 
 in the field. 
 
 It was almost dusk when he started from 
 home to go to the grist-mill of which his father 
 was the proprietor. He wanted to get his fa- 
 ther's signature first, both as a matter of policy 
 and as a matter of filial courtesy. 
 
 As he approached the railroad station, which 
 it was necessary for him to pass on his way to 
 the mill, he saw Colonel Butler pacing up and 
 down the platform which faced the town, and, 
 at every turn, looking anxiously up the street. 
 
 It was evident that the colonel was waiting 
 for the train, and it was just as evident that 
 he was expecting some one, probably Pen, to 
 come to the station to see him off. And Pen 
 was nowhere in sight. 
 
 A brilliant and daring thought entered 
 Aleck's mind. While, ordinarily, he was 
 neither brilliant nor daring, yet he was intel- 
 ligent, quick and resourceful. He was always 
 ready to meet an emergency. The idea that 
 had taken such sudden possession of him was 
 nothing more nor less than an impulse to so-
 
 THE FLAG 13 
 
 licit Colonel Butler for a subscription to the 
 flag fund and thus forestall Pen. And why 
 not? He knew of nothing to prevent. Pen 
 had no exclusive right to subscriptions from 
 the Hill, any more than he, Aleck, had to sub- 
 scriptions from the Valley. And if he could 
 be first to obtain a contribution from Colonel 
 Butler, the most important citizen of Chestnut 
 Hill, if not of the whole county, what plaudits 
 would he not receive from his comrades of the 
 Riverbeds? 
 
 Having made up his mind he was not slow 
 to act. He was already within fifty feet of 
 the platform on which the gray-mustached and 
 stern-faced veteran of the civil war was im- 
 patiently marching up and down. An empty 
 sleeve was pinned to the breast of the old sol- 
 dier's coat; but he stood erect, and his steps 
 were measured with soldierly precision. He 
 had stopped for a moment to look, with keener 
 scrutiny, up the street which led to the station. 
 Aleck stepped up on the platform and ap- 
 proached him. 
 
 "Good evening, Colonel Butler!" he said. 
 
 The man turned and faced him.
 
 14 THE FLAG 
 
 "Good evening, sir !" he replied. "You have 
 somewhat the advantage of me, sir." 
 
 "My name is Aleck Sands," explained the 
 boy. "My father has the grist-mill here. 
 Miss Grey, she is our teacher at the graded 
 school, and she gave me a paper " 
 
 Colonel Butler interrupted him. 
 
 "A pupil at the graded school are you, sir? 
 Do you chance to know a lad there by the name 
 of Penfield Butler; and if you know him can 
 you give me any information concerning his 
 whereabouts this evening?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. I know him. After school he 
 started for Drake's Hill with some other Hill 
 boys to go a coasting." 
 
 "Ah! Pleasure before duty. He was to 
 have met me here prior to the leaving of the 
 train. I have little patience, sir, with boys 
 who neglect engagements to promote their own 
 pleasures." 
 
 He had such an air of severity as he said it, 
 that Aleck was not sure whether, after all, he 
 would dare to reapproach him on the subject 
 of the subscription. But he plucked up cour- 
 age and started in anew.
 
 THE FLAG 15 
 
 "Our teacher, Miss Grey, gave me this paper 
 to get subscriptions on for the new flag. I'd 
 be awful glad if you'd give something toward 
 it." 
 
 "What's that?" asked the man as he took the 
 paper from Aleck's hand. "A flag for the 
 school? And has the school no flag?" 
 
 "No, sir; not any." 
 
 "The directors have been derelict in their 
 duty, sir. They should have provided a flag 
 on the erection of the building. No public 
 school should be without an American flag. 
 Let me see." 
 
 He unhooked his eyeglasses from the breast 
 of his waist-coat and put them on, shook out 
 the paper dexterously with his one hand, and 
 began to read it aloud. 
 
 "We, the undersigned, hereby agree to pay 
 the sums set opposite our respective names, for 
 the purpose of purchasing an American flag 
 for the Chestnut Hill public school. All sub- 
 scriptions to be payable to a collector hereafter 
 to be appointed." 
 
 Colonel Butler removed his glasses from his 
 nose and stood for a moment in contemplation.
 
 16 THE FLAG 
 
 "I approve of the project," he said at last. 
 "Our youth should be made familiar with the 
 sight of the flag. They should be taught to 
 reverence it. They should learn of the gallant 
 deeds of those who have fought for it through 
 many great wars. I shall be glad to affix my 
 name, sir, to the document, and to make a 
 modest contribution. How large a fund is it 
 proposed to raise?" 
 
 Aleck stammered a little as he replied. He 
 had not expected so ready a compliance with 
 his request. And it was beginning to dawn 
 on him that it might be good policy, as well 
 as a matter of common fairness, to tell the col- 
 onel frankly that Pen also had been authorized 
 to solicit subscriptions. There might indeed 
 be such a thing as revoking a subscription made 
 under a misleading representation, or a sup- 
 pression of facts. And if that should hap- 
 pen 
 
 "Why," said Aleck, "why Miss Grey said 
 she thought we ought to get twenty-five dol- 
 lars. We've got to get a pole too, you know." 
 
 "Certainly you must have a staff, and a good 
 one. Twenty-five dollars is not enough
 
 THE FLAG 17 
 
 money, young man. You should have forty 
 dollars at least. Fifty would be better. I'll 
 give half of that amount myself. There 
 should be no skimping, no false economy, in a 
 matter of such prime importance. I shall see 
 Miss Grey about it personally when I return 
 from New York. Kindly accompany me to 
 the station-agent's office where I can procure 
 pen and ink." 
 
 Aleck knew that the revelation could be no 
 longer delayed. 
 
 "But," he stammered, "but, Colonel Butler, 
 you know Pen's got one too." 
 
 The colonel turned back again. 
 
 "Got what?" he asked. 
 
 "Why, one of these, now, subscription 
 papers." 
 
 "Has he?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 Colonel Butler stood for a moment, appar- 
 ently in deep thought. Then he looked out 
 again from under his bushy eye-brows, search- 
 ingly, up the street. He took his watch from 
 his pocket and glanced at it. After that he 
 spoke.
 
 18 THE FLAG 
 
 "Under normal conditions, sir, my grandson 
 would have preference in a matter of this kind, 
 and I am obliged to you for unselfishly making 
 the suggestion. But, as he has failed to per- 
 form a certain duty toward me, I shall con- 
 sider myself relieved, for the time being, of my 
 duty of preference toward him. Kindly 
 accompany me to the station-master's of- 
 fice." 
 
 With Aleck in his wake he strode down the 
 platform and across the waiting-room, among 
 the people who had gathered to wait for or de- 
 part by the train, and spoke to the ticket-agent 
 at the window. 
 
 "Will you kindly permit me, sir, to use your 
 table and pen and ink to sign a document of 
 some importance?" 
 
 "Certainly!" 
 
 The man at the window opened the door of 
 the agent's room and bade the colonel and 
 Aleck to enter. He pushed a chair up to the 
 table and placed ink and pens within reach. 
 
 "Help yourself, Colonel Butler," he said. 
 "We're glad to accommodate you." 
 
 But the colonel had barely seated himself be-
 
 THE FLAG 19 
 
 fore a new thought entered his mind. He pon- 
 dered for a moment, and then swung around in 
 the swivel-chair and faced the boy who stood 
 waiting, cap in hand. 
 
 "Young man," he said, "it just occurs to me 
 that I can serve your school as well, and please 
 myself better, by making a donation of the 
 flag instead of subscribing to the fund. Does 
 the idea meet with your approval?" 
 
 The proposition came so unexpectedly, and 
 the question so suddenly, that Aleck hardly 
 knew how to respond. 
 
 "Why, yes, sir," he said hesitatingly, "I sup- 
 pose so. You mean you'll give us the flag?" 
 
 "Yes; I'll give you the flag. I am about 
 starting for New York. I will purchase one 
 while there. And in the spring I will provide 
 a proper staff for it, in order that it may be 
 flung to the breeze." 
 
 By this time Aleck comprehended the col- 
 onel's plan. 
 
 "Why," he exclaimed enthusiastically, 
 "that'll be great! May I tell Miss Grey?" * 
 
 "You may be the sole bearer of my written 
 offer to your respected teacher."
 
 20 THE FLAG 
 
 He swung around to the table and picked up 
 a pen. 
 
 "Your teacher's given name is ?" he in- 
 quired. 
 
 "Why," stammered Aleck, "it's it's why, 
 her name's Miss Helen Grey." 
 
 The colonel began to write rapidly on the 
 blank page of the subscription paper. 
 
 "To Miss Helen Grey; 
 
 "Principal of the Public School 
 
 "Chestnut Hill. 
 "MY DEAR MADAM : 
 
 "I am informed by one of your pupils, Mas- 
 ter- 
 He stopped long enough to ask the boy for 
 his full name, and then continued to write 
 
 "Alexander McMurtrie Sands, that it is your 
 patriotic purpose to procure an American flag 
 for use in your school. With this purpose I 
 am in hearty accord. It will therefore give 
 me great pleasure, my dear madam, to procure 
 for you at once, at my sole expense, and present 
 to your school, an appropriate banner, to be 
 followed in due season by a fitting staff. I
 
 THE FLAG 21 
 
 trust that my purpose and desire may com- 
 mend themselves to you. I wish also that your 
 pupil, the aforesaid Master Sands, shall have 
 full credit for having so successfully called this 
 matter to my attention ; and to that end I make 
 him sole bearer of this communication. 
 "I remain, my dear madam, 
 "Your obedient servant, 
 
 "RICHARD BUTLER." 
 January 12th. 
 
 Colonel Butler read the letter over slowly 
 aloud, folded the subscription paper on which 
 it had been written, and handed it to Aleck. 
 
 "There, young man," he said, "are your 
 credentials, and my offer." 
 
 The shrieking whistle had already announced 
 the approach of the train, and the easy puffing 
 of the locomotive indicated that it was now 
 standing at the station. The colonel rose from 
 his chair and started across the room, followed 
 by Aleck. 
 
 "You're very kind to do that," said the boy. 
 And he added: "Have you a grip that I can 
 carry to the train for you?" 
 
 "No, thank you! A certain act rash per-
 
 22 THE FLAG 
 
 haps, but justifiable, in the civil war, cost me 
 an arm. Since then, when traveling, I have 
 found it convenient to check my baggage." 
 
 He pushed his way through the crowd on the 
 platform, still followed by Aleck, and mounted 
 the rear steps of the last coach on the train. 
 The engine bell was ringing. The conductor 
 cried, "All aboard!" and signalled to the en- 
 gineer, and the train moved slowly out. 
 
 On the rear platform, scanning the crowd 
 at the station, stood Colonel Butler, tall, sol- 
 dierly, impressive. He saw Aleck and waved 
 his hand to him. And at that moment, cap- 
 less, breathless, hopeless, around the corner of 
 the station into sight, dashed Pen Butler.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 PEN was not only exhausted by his race, he 
 was disappointed and distressed as well. 
 
 Whether or not his grandfather had seen 
 him as the train moved out he did not know. 
 He simply knew that for him not to have been 
 there on time was little less than tragical. He 
 dropped down limply on a convenient trunk 
 to regain*his breath. 
 
 After a minute he was aware that some one 
 was standing near by, looking at him. He 
 glanced up and saw that it was Aleck Sands. 
 He was nettled. He knew of no reason why 
 Aleck should stand there staring at him. 
 
 "Well," he asked impatiently, "is there any- 
 thing about me that's particularly astonish- 
 ing?" 
 
 "Not particularly," replied Aleck. "You 
 seem to be winded, that's all." 
 
 "You'd be winded too, if you'd run all the 
 way from Drake's Hill."
 
 24 THE FLAG 
 
 "Too bad you missed your grandfather. 
 He was looking for you." 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "He told me so. He wanted to know if I'd 
 seen you." 
 
 "What did you tell him?" 
 
 "I told him you'd gone to Drake's Hill, 
 coasting." 
 
 Pen rose slowly to his feet. What right, he 
 asked himself, had this fellow to be telling tales 
 about him? What right had he to be talking 
 to Colonel Butler, anyway? However, he did 
 not choose to lower his dignity further by in- 
 quiry. He turned as if to leave the station. 
 But Aleck, who had been turning the matter 
 over carefully in his mind, had decided that 
 Pen ought to know about the proposed gift 
 of the flag. He ought not to be permitted, un- 
 wittingly, to go on securing subscriptions to 
 a fund which, by reason of Colonel Butler's 
 proposed gift, had been made unnecessary. 
 That would be cruel and humiliating. So, as 
 Pen turned away, he said to him : 
 
 "I've put in some work for the flag this 
 afternoon."
 
 THE FLAG 25 
 
 "I s'pose so," responded Pen. "But it does 
 not follow that by getting the first start you'll 
 come out best in the end." 
 
 "Maybe not; but I'd like to show you what 
 I've done," 
 
 He took the subscription paper from his 
 pocket and began to unfold it. 
 
 "Oh," replied Pen, "I don't care what you've 
 done. It's none of my business. You get 
 your subscriptions and I'll get mine." 
 
 Aleck looked for a moment steadily at his 
 opponent. Then he folded up his paper and 
 put it back into his pocket. 
 
 "All right!" he said. "Only don't forget 
 that I offered to show it to you to-day." 
 
 But Pen was both resentful and scornful. 
 He did not propose to treat his rival's offer 
 seriously, nor to give him the satisfaction of 
 looking at his paper. 
 
 "You can't bluff me that way," he said. 
 "And besides, I'm not interested in what 
 you're doing." 
 
 And he walked around the corner of the sta- 
 tion platform and out into the street. 
 
 When Aleck Sands tramped up the hill to
 
 26 THE FLAG 
 
 school on the following morning it was with no 
 great sense of jubilation over his success. He 
 had an uneasy feeling that he had not done 
 exactly the fair thing in soliciting a subscrip- 
 tion from Pen Butler's grandfather. It was, 
 in a way, trenching on Pen's preserves. But 
 he justified himself on the ground that he had 
 a perfect right to get his contributions where 
 he chose. His agency had been conditioned 
 by no territorial limits. And if, by his dili- 
 gence, he had outwitted Pen, surely he had 
 nothing to regret. So far as his failure to dis- 
 close to his rival the fact of Colonel Butler's 
 gift was concerned, that, he felt, was Pen's 
 own fault. If, by his offensive conduct, the 
 other boy had deprived himself of his means of 
 knowledge, and had humiliated himself and 
 made himself ridiculous by procuring unneces- 
 sary subscriptions, certainly he, Aleck, was not 
 to blame. Under any circumstances, now 
 that he had gone so far in the matter, he would 
 not yield an inch nor make a single concession. 
 On that course he was fully determined. 
 
 On the walk, as he approached the school- 
 house door, Pen was standing, with a group of
 
 THE FLAG 27 
 
 Hill boys. They were discussing the accident 
 that had occurred on Drake's Hill the day be- 
 fore. They paid little attention to Aleck as 
 he passed by them, but, just as he was mount- 
 ing the steps, Pen called out to him. 
 
 "Oh, Aleck! You wanted to show me your 
 subscription paper last night. I'll look at it 
 now, and you look at mine, and we'll leave it 
 to the fellows here who's got the most names 
 and the most money promised. And I haven't 
 got my grandfather on it yet, either." 
 
 Aleck turned and faced him. "Remember 
 what you said to me last night?" he asked. 
 "Well, I'll say the same thing to you this morn- 
 ing. I'm not interested in your paper. It's 
 none of my business. You get your subscrip- 
 tions and I'll get mine." 
 
 And he mounted the steps and entered the 
 school-room. 
 
 Miss Grey was already at her desk, and he 
 went straight to her. 
 
 "I've brought back my subscription blank, 
 Miss Grey," he said, and he handed the paper 
 to her. 
 
 She looked up in surprise.
 
 28 THE FLAG 
 
 "You haven't completed your canvass, have 
 you?" she asked. 
 
 "No. If you'll read the paper you'll see it 
 wasn't necessary." 
 
 She unfolded the paper and read the letter 
 written on it. Her face flushed; but whether 
 with astonishment or anxiety it would have 
 been difficult to say. 
 
 "Did Colonel Butler know," she inquired, 
 "when he wrote this, that Pen also had a sub- 
 scription paper?" 
 
 "Yes. I met him at the station last night, 
 when he was starting for New York, and I 
 told him all about it." 
 
 "Was Pen there?" 
 
 "No; he didn't get there till after the train 
 started." 
 
 "Does he know about this letter?" 
 
 "Not from me. I offered to show it to him 
 but he wouldn't look at it." 
 
 "Aleck, there's something strange about 
 this. I don't quite understand it. Is Pen 
 outside?" 
 
 "Yes ; he was when I came." 
 
 "Call him in, please; and return with him."
 
 THE FLAG 29 
 
 Aleck went to the door, his resolution to 
 stand by his conduct growing stronger every 
 minute. He called to Pen. 
 
 "Miss Grey wants to see you," he said. 
 
 "What for?" inquired Pen. 
 
 "She'll tell you when you come in." 
 
 Both boys returned to the teacher. 
 
 "Pen," she inquired, "have you obtained any 
 subscriptions to your paper for the flag fund?" 
 
 "Yes, Miss Grey," he replied. "I think I've 
 done pretty well considering my grandfather's 
 not home." 
 
 He handed his paper to her with a show of 
 pardonable pride; but she merely glanced at 
 the long list of names. 
 
 "Did you know," she asked, "that Colonel 
 Butler has decided to give the flag to the 
 school?" 
 
 Pen opened his eyes in astonishment. 
 
 "No," he said. "Has he?" 
 
 "Read this letter, please." 
 
 She handed the colonel's letter to him and 
 he began to read it. His face grew red and 
 his eyes snapped. He had been outwitted. 
 He knew in a moment when, where and how it
 
 30 THE FLAG 
 
 had been done. He handed the paper back to 
 Miss Grey. 
 
 "All right!" he said. "But I think it was a 
 mean, underhanded, contemptible trick." 
 
 Then Aleck, slow to wrath, woke up. 
 
 "There was. nothing mean nor underhanded 
 about it," he retorted. "I had a perfect right 
 to ask Colonel Butler for a subscription. And 
 if he chose to give the whole flag, that was his 
 lookout. And," turning to Pen, "if you'd 
 been half way decent last night, you'd have 
 known all about this thing then, and maybe 
 saved yourself some trouble." 
 
 Before Pen could flash back a reply, Miss 
 Grey intervened. 
 
 "That will do, boys. I'm not sure who is 
 in the wrong here, if any one is. I propose to 
 find out about that, later. It's an unfortunate 
 situation; but, in justice to Colonel Butler, we 
 must accept it." She handed Pen's paper 
 back to him, and added: "I think you had 
 better take this back to your subscribers, and 
 ask them to cancel their subscriptions. I will 
 consult with my associates at noon, and we will 
 decide upon our future course. In the mean-
 
 THE FLAG 31 
 
 time I charge you both, strictly, to say nothing 
 about this matter until after I have made my 
 announcement at the afternoon session. You 
 may take your seats." 
 
 The school bell had already ceased ringing, 
 and the pupils had filed in and had taken their 
 proper places. So Aleck and Pen went down 
 the aisle, the one with stubborn resolution 
 marking his countenance, the other with keen 
 resentment flashing from his eyes. 
 
 And poor Miss Grey, mild and peace-loving, 
 but now troubled and despondent, who had 
 thought to restore harmony among her pupils, 
 foresaw, instead, only a continued and more 
 bitter rivalry. 
 
 Notwithstanding her admonition, rumors of 
 serious trouble between Aleck and Pen filtered 
 through the school-room during the morning 
 session, and were openly discussed at the noon 
 recess. But both boys kept silent. 
 
 It was not until the day's work had been 
 finally disposed of, and the closing hour had 
 almost arrived, that Miss Grey made her an- 
 nouncement. 
 
 With all the composure at her command she
 
 32 THE FLAG 
 
 called the attention of the school to the plan 
 for a flag fund. 
 
 "Our end has been accomplished," she added, 
 "much more quickly and successfully than we 
 had dared to hope, as you will see by this letter 
 which I shall read to you." 
 
 When she had finished reading the letter 
 there was a burst of applause. The school had 
 not discovered the currents under the surface. 
 
 She continued: 
 
 "This, of course, will do away with the nec- 
 essity of obtaining subscriptions. Honors ap- 
 pear to be nearly even. A prominent citizen 
 of Chestnut Hill has given us the flag " 
 (Loud applause from the Hilltops;) "and a 
 pupil from Chestnut Valley has the distinction 
 of having procured the gift." (Cheers for 
 Aleck Sands from the Riverbeds.) "Now let 
 rivalry cease, and let us unite in a fitting ac- 
 ceptance of the gift. I have consulted with 
 my associates, and we have appointed a com- 
 mittee to wait upon Colonel Butler and to co- 
 operate with him in fixing a day for the pre- 
 sentation of the flag to the school. We will 
 make a half-holiday for the occasion, and will
 
 THE FLAG 33 
 
 prepare an order of exercises. We assume 
 that Colonel Butler will make a speech of pres- 
 entation, and we have selected Penfield Butler 
 as the most appropriate person to respond on 
 behalf of the school. Penfield will prepare 
 himself accordingly." 
 
 By making this appointment Miss Grey had 
 hoped to pour oil upon the troubled waters, 
 and to bring about at least a semblance of har- 
 mony among the warring elements. But, as 
 the event proved, she had counted without her 
 host. For she had no sooner finished her ad- 
 dress than Pen was on his feet. His face was 
 pale and there was a strange look in his eyes, 
 but he did not appear to be unduly ex- 
 cited. 
 
 "May I speak, Miss Grey?" he asked. 
 
 "Certainly," she replied. 
 
 "Then I want to say that I'm very much 
 obliged to you for appointing me, but I decline 
 the appointment. I'm glad the school's going 
 to have a flag, and I'm glad my grandfather's 
 going to give it; and I thank you, Miss Grey, 
 for trying to please me; but I don't propose 
 to be made the tail of Aleck Sands' kite. If he
 
 34 THE FLAG 
 
 thinks it's an honor to get the flag the way he 
 got it, let him have the honor of accepting 
 it." 
 
 Pen sat down. There was no applause. 
 Even his own followers were too greatly 
 amazed for the moment to applaud him. And, 
 before they got their wits together, Miss Grey 
 had again taken the reins in hand. 
 
 "I am sure we all regret," she said, "that 
 Penfield does not see fit to accept this appoint- 
 ment, and we should regret still more the atti- 
 tude of mind that leads him to decline it. 
 However, in accordance with his suggestion, I 
 will name Alexander Sands as the person who 
 will make the response to Colonel Butler's 
 presentation speech. That is all to-day. 
 When school is dismissed you will not loiter 
 about the school grounds, but go immediately 
 to your homes." 
 
 It was a wise precaution on Miss Grey's part 
 to direct her pupils to go at once to their homes. 
 There is no telling what disorder might have 
 taken place had they been permitted to remain. 
 The group of Hilltops that surrounded Pen 
 as he marched up the street and explained the
 
 THE FLAG 35 
 
 situation to them, was loud in its condemnation 
 of the meanness and trickery of Aleck Sands; 
 and the party of Riverbeds that walked down 
 with Aleck was jubilant over the clever way in 
 which he had outwitted his opponent, and 
 had, by obtaining honor for himself, conferred 
 honor also upon them. 
 
 Colonel Butler returned, in due season, from 
 New York. 
 
 Pen met him at the station on his arrival. 
 There was no delay on this occasion. Indeed, 
 the boy had paced up and down the platform 
 for at least fifteen minutes before the train 
 drew in. During the ride up to Bannerhall, 
 behind the splendid team of blacks with their 
 jingling bells, nothing was said about the gift 
 of the flag. It was not until dinner had been 
 served and partly eaten that the subject was 
 mentioned, and the colonel himself was the first 
 one to mention it. 
 
 "By the way, Penfield," he said, "I have or- 
 dered, and I expect to receive in a few days, an 
 American flag which I shall present to your 
 public school. I presume you have heard 
 something concerning it?"
 
 36 THE FLAG 
 
 "Yes, grandfather. Your letter was read to 
 the school by Miss Grey the day after you went 
 to New York." 
 
 "Did she seem pleased over the gift?" 
 
 "Yes, very much so, I think. It was aw- 
 fully nice of you to give it." 
 
 "A was any arrangement made about re- 
 ceiving it?" 
 
 "Yes, Miss Grey appointed a committee to 
 see you. There's to be a half -holiday, and ex- 
 ercises." 
 
 "I presume a Penfield, that I will be ex- 
 pected to make a brief address?" 
 
 "Of course. Miss Grey's counting on it." 
 
 "Now, father," interrupted Aunt Millicent, 
 "I do hope it will be a really brief address. 
 You're so long-winded. That speech you 
 made when the school-house was dedicated was 
 twice too long. Everybody got tired." 
 
 His daughter Millicent was the only person 
 on earth from whom Colonel Butler would 
 accept criticism or reproof. And from her he 
 not only accepted it, but not infrequently acted 
 upon it in accordance with her wish. He had 
 always humored her, because she had always
 
 THE FLAG 37 
 
 lived with him, except during the time she was 
 away at boarding school; and since the death 
 of his wife, a dozen years before, she had de- 
 voted herself to his comfort. But he was fond, 
 nevertheless, of getting into a mild argument 
 with her, and being vanquished, as he expected 
 to be now. 
 
 "My dear daughter," he said, "I invariably 
 gauge the length of my speech by the import- 
 ance of the occasion. The occasion to which 
 you refer was an important one, as will be the 
 occasion of the presentation of this flag. It 
 will be necessary for me, therefore, to address 
 the pupils and the assembled guests at suf- 
 ficient length to impress upon them the desir- 
 ability, you may say the necessity, of having a 
 patriotic emblem, such as is the American 
 flag, constantly before the eyes of our 
 youth." 
 
 His daughter laughed a little. She was 
 never awed by his stately manner of speech. 
 
 "All the same," she replied; "I shall get a 
 seat in the front row, and if you exceed fifteen 
 minutes fifteen minutes to a minute, mind 
 you I shall hold up a warning ringer ; and if
 
 38 THE FLAG 
 
 you still trespass, I shall go up and drag you 
 off the platform by your coat tails; and then 
 you'd look pretty, wouldn't you?" 
 
 Apparently he did not find it profitable to 
 prolong the argument with her on this occasion, 
 for he laughed and turned again to Pen. 
 
 "By the way, Penfield," he said, ''I missed 
 you at the train the day I left home. I sup- 
 pose something of major importance detained 
 you?" 
 
 Pen blushed a little, but he replied 
 frankly : 
 
 "I was awfully sorry, grandfather; I meant 
 to have written you about it. I didn't exactly 
 forget; but I was coasting on Drake's Hill, and 
 there was an accident, and I was very much 
 excited, and it got train-time before I knew it. 
 Then I ran as fast as I could, but it wasn't any 
 use." 
 
 "I see. I trust that no one was seriously in- 
 jured?" 
 
 "No, sir. I bruised my shin a little, and 
 Elmer scraped his knee, and the bobs were 
 wrecked; that's about all." 
 
 Colonel Butler adjusted his glasses and
 
 THE FLAG 39 
 
 leaned back in his chair; a habit he had when 
 about to deliver himself of an opinion which he 
 deemed important. 
 
 "Penfield," he said, "a gentleman should 
 never permit anything to interfere with the 
 keeping of his engagements. If the matter in 
 hand is of sufficient importance to call for an 
 engagement, it is of sufficient importance to 
 keep the engagement so made. It is an ele- 
 mentary principle of good conduct that a gen- 
 tleman should always keep his word. Other- 
 wise the relations of men with each other would 
 become chaotic." 
 
 "Yes, sir," replied Pen. 
 
 Colonel Butler removed his glasses and 
 again applied himself to the disposal of his 
 food which had been cut into convenient por- 
 tions by his devoted daughter. 
 
 But his mind soon recurred to the subject of 
 the flag. 
 
 "A Penfield," he inquired, "do you chance 
 to know whether any person has been chosen 
 to make a formal response to my speech of 
 presentation?" 
 
 Pen felt that the conversation was approach-
 
 40 THE FLAG 
 
 ing an embarrassing stage, but there was no 
 hesitancy in his manner as he replied : 
 
 "Yes, sir. The boy that got your offer, 
 Aleck Sands, will make the response." 
 
 "H'm! I was hoping, expecting in fact, 
 that you, yourself, would be chosen to per- 
 form that pleasing duty. Had you been, we 
 could have prepared our several speeches with 
 a view to their proper relation to each other. 
 It occurred to me that your teacher, Miss 
 Grey, would have this fact in mind. Do you 
 happen to know of any reason why she should 
 not have appointed you?" 
 
 For the first time in the course of the con- 
 versation Pen hesitated and stammered. 
 
 "Why, I she she did appoint me." 
 
 "Haven't you just told me, sir, that " 
 
 "But, grandfather, I declined," 
 
 Aunt Millicent dropped her hands into her 
 lap in astonishment. 
 
 "Pen Butler!" she exclaimed, "why haven't 
 you told me a word of this before?" 
 
 "Because, Aunt Milly, it wasn't a very 
 agreeable incident, and I didn't want to bother 
 you telling about it."
 
 THE FLAG 41 
 
 Colonel Butler had, in the meantime, again 
 put on his glasses in order that he might 
 look more searchingly at his grandson. 
 
 "Permit me to inquire," he asked, "why 
 you should have declined so distinct an 
 honor?" 
 
 Then Pen blurted out his whole grievance. 
 
 "Because Aleck Sands didn't do the fair 
 thing. He got you to give the flag through 
 him instead of through me, by a mean trick. 
 He gets the credit of getting the flag ; now let 
 him have the honor of accepting it. I won't 
 play second fiddle to such a fellow as he is, and 
 that's all there is to it." 
 
 He pushed his chair back from the table and 
 sat, with flaming cheeks and defiant eyes, as if 
 ready to meet all comers. 
 
 Aunt Millicent, more astonished than ever, 
 exclaimed: 
 
 "Why, Pen Butler, I'm shocked!" 
 
 But the colonel did not seem to be shocked. 
 Back of his glasses there was a gleam of satis- 
 faction in his eyes which Pen could not see. 
 Here was the old Butler pride and independ- 
 ence manifesting itself; the spirit which had
 
 42 THE FLAG 
 
 made the family prosperous and prominent. 
 He was not ill-pleased. Nevertheless he 
 leaned back in his chair and spoke impres- 
 sively : 
 
 "Now let us consider the situation. You 
 received from your teacher a copy of the same 
 subscription blank which was handed to your 
 fellow-pupil. Had you met your engagement 
 at the station, and called the matter to my at- 
 tention, you would doubtless have received my 
 subscription, or been the bearer of my offer, 
 in preference to any one else. In your ab- 
 sence your school-fellow seized a legitimate op- 
 portunity to present his case. My regret at 
 your failure to appear, and my appreciation of 
 his alertness, led me to favor him. I am un- 
 able to see why, under these circumstances, he 
 should be charged with improper conduct." 
 
 "Well," responded Pen, hotly, "he might at 
 least have told you that I had a subscription 
 blank too." 
 
 "He did so inform me. And his fairness 
 and frankness in doing so was an inducing 
 cause of my favorable consideration of his re- 
 quest."
 
 THE FLAG 43 
 
 Pen felt that the ground was being cut away 
 from under his feet, but he still had one griev- 
 ance left. 
 
 "Anyway," he exclaimed, "he might have 
 told me about your giving the whole flag, in- 
 stead of letting me go around like a monkey, 
 collecting pennies for nothing." 
 
 "Very true, Penfield, he should have told 
 you. Didn't he intimate to you in any way 
 what I had done ? Didn't he offer to show you 
 his subscription blank containing my let- 
 ter?" 
 
 "Why why, yes, I believe he did." 
 
 'And you declined to look at it?" 
 
 "Yes, I declined to look at it. I considered 
 it none of my business. But he might have 
 told me what was on it." 
 
 "My dear grandson; this is a case in which 
 the alertness of your school- fellow, added to 
 your failure to keep an engagement and to 
 grasp a situation, has led to your discomfiture. 
 Let this be a lesson to you to be diligent, vig- 
 ilant and forearmed. Only thus are great bat- 
 tles won." 
 
 Again the colonel placed his glasses on the
 
 44 THE FLAG 
 
 hook on the breast of his waistcoat, and re- 
 sumed his activity in connection with his even- 
 ing meal. It was plain that he considered the 
 discussion at an end.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 IT was on an afternoon late in January that 
 the flag was finally presented to the school. It 
 was a day marked with fierce winds and flurries 
 of snow, like a day in March. 
 
 But the inclement weather did not prevent 
 people from coming to the presentation exer- 
 cises. The school room was full; even the 
 aisles were filled, and more than one late-comer 
 was turned away because there was no more 
 room. 
 
 Notwithstanding the fact that the Riverbeds 
 were to have the lion's share of the honors of 
 the occasion, and the further fact that resent- 
 ment in the ranks of the Hilltops ran strong 
 and deep, and doubly so since the outwitting 
 of their leader, no attempt was made to block 
 the program, or to interfere, in any way, with 
 the success of the occasion. 
 
 There were, indeed, some secret whisperings 
 in a little group of which Elmer Cuddeback
 
 46 THE FLAG 
 
 was the center ; but, if any mischief was brew- 
 ing, Pen did not know of it. 
 
 Moreover, was it not Pen's grandfather who 
 had given the flag, and who was to be the chief 
 guest of the school, and was it not up to the 
 Hilltops to see that he was treated with be- 
 coming courtesy? At any rate that was the 
 "consensus of opinion" among them. Colonel 
 Butler had prepared his presentation speech 
 with great care. Twice he had read it aloud 
 in his library to his grandson and to his daugh- 
 ter Millicent. 
 
 His grandson had only favorable comment 
 to make, but his daughter Millicent criticised it 
 sharply. She said that it was twice too long, 
 that it had too much "spread eagle" in it, and 
 that it would be away over the heads of his 
 audience anyway. So the colonel modified it 
 somewhat ; but, unfortunately, he neither made 
 it simpler nor appreciably shorter. 
 
 Aleck, too, under the supervision of his 
 teacher, had prepared a fitting and patriotic 
 response which he had committed to memory 
 and had rehearsed many times. Pupils taking 
 part in the rest of the program had been
 
 THE FLAG 47 
 
 carefully and patiently drilled, and every one 
 looked forward to an occasion which would be 
 marked as a red-letter day in the history of the 
 Chestnut Hill school. 
 
 The exercises opened with the singing of 
 "The Star Spangled Banner," by the school. 
 There was a brief prayer by the pastor of one 
 of the village churches. Next came a recita- 
 tion, "Barbara Frietchie," by a small girl. 
 Then another girl read a brief history of the 
 American flag. She was followed by James 
 Garfield Morrissey, the crack elocutionist of 
 the school, who recited, in fine form, a well- 
 known patriotic poem, written to commemor- 
 ate the heroism of American sailors who 
 cheered the flag as they went down with the 
 sinking flag-ship Trenton in a hurricane which 
 swept the Samoan coast in 1889. 
 
 THE BANNER OF THE SEA 
 
 By wind and wave the sailor brave has fared 
 
 To shores of every sea; 
 But, never yet have seamen met or dared 
 
 Grim death for victory, 
 In braver mood than they who died 
 On drifting decks in Apia's tide 
 \Vhile cheering every sailor's pride, 
 
 The Banner of the Free.
 
 48 THE FLAG 
 
 Columbia's men were they who then went down, 
 
 Not knights nor kings of old; 
 But brighter far their laurels are than crown 
 
 Or coronet of gold. 
 Our sailor true, of any crew, 
 Would give the last long breath he drew 
 To cheer the old Red, White and Blue, 
 The Banner of the Bold. 
 
 With hearts of oak, through storm and smoke and flame, 
 
 Columbia's seamen long 
 Have bravely fought and nobly wrought that shame 
 
 Might never dull their song. 
 They sing the Country of the Free, 
 The glory of the rolling sea, 
 The starry flag of liberty, 
 
 The Banner of the Strong. 
 
 We ask but this, and not amiss the claim ; 
 
 A fleet to ride the wave, 
 A navy great to crown the state with fame, 
 
 Though foes or tempests rave. 
 Then, as our fathers did of yore, 
 We'll sail our ships to every shore, 
 On every ocean wind will soar 
 
 The Banner of the Brave. 
 
 Oh ! this we claim that never shame may ride 
 
 On any wave with thee, 
 Thou ship of state whose timbers great abide 
 
 The home of liberty. 
 For, so, our gallant Yankee tars, 
 Of daring deeds and honored scars, 
 Will make the Banner of the Stars 
 
 The Banner of the Sea. 
 
 The school having been roused to a proper 
 pitch of enthusiasm by the reading of these 
 verses, Colonel Butler rose in an atmosphere al- 
 ready surcharged with patriotism to make his
 
 THE FLAG 49 
 
 presentation speech. Hearty applause greeted 
 the colonel, for, notwithstanding his well- 
 known idiosyncrasies, he was extremely pop- 
 ular in Chestnut Hill. He had been a brave 
 soldier, an exemplary neighbor, a prominent 
 and public-spirited citizen. Why should he 
 not receive a generous welcome? He gra- 
 ciously bowed his acknowledgment, and when 
 the hand-clapping ceased he began: 
 
 "Honored teachers, diligent pupils, faithful 
 directors, patriotic citizens, and friends. This 
 is a most momentous occasion. We are met 
 to-day to do honor to the flag of our country, 
 a flag for which and I say it with pardonable 
 pride I, myself, have fought on many a 
 bloody and well-known field." 
 
 There was a round of applause. 
 
 The colonel's face flushed with pleasure, his 
 voice rose and expanded, and in many a well- 
 rounded phrase and burst of eloquence he ap- 
 pealed to the latent patriotism of his hear- 
 ers. 
 
 At the end of fifteen minutes he glanced at 
 his watch which was lying on a table at his 
 side, and then looked at his daughter Millicent
 
 50 THE FLAG 
 
 who was occupying a chair in the front row as 
 she had said she would. She frowned at him 
 forbiddingly. But he was as yet scarcely half 
 through his speech. He picked up his manu- 
 script from the table and glanced at it, and 
 then looked appealingly at her. She was ob- 
 durate. She held a warning forefinger in the 
 air. 
 
 "I am reminded," he said, "by one in the 
 audience whose judgment I am bound to re- 
 spect, that the time allotted to me in this pro- 
 gram has nearly elapsed." 
 
 "Fully elapsed," whispered his daughter 
 with pursed lips, in such manner that, looking 
 at her, he could not fail to catch the words. 
 
 "Therefore," continued the colonel, with a 
 sigh, "I must hasten to my conclusion. I wish 
 to acknowledge my deep indebtedness to your 
 faithful teacher, Miss Grey, by reason of whose 
 patriotic initiative the opportunity was pre- 
 sented to me to make this gift. I wish also to 
 commend the vigilance and effort of the young 
 gentleman who brought the matter to my im- 
 mediate and personal attention, and who, I am 
 informed, will fittingly and eloquently respond
 
 THE FLAG 51 
 
 to this brief and somewhat unsatisfactory ad- 
 dress, Master Alexander Sands." 
 
 Back somewhere in the audience, at the 
 sound of the name, there w T as an audible sniff 
 which was immediately drowned by loud hand- 
 clapping on the part of the Riverbeds. But 
 Colonel Butler was not yet quite through. 
 Avoiding any ominous look which might have 
 been aimed at him by his daughter, he hurried 
 on: 
 
 "And now, in conclusion, as I turn this flag 
 over into your custody, let me charge you to 
 guard it with exceeding care. It should be 
 treated with reverence because it symbolizes 
 our common country. Whoever regards it 
 with indifference has no patriotic blood in his 
 veins. Whoever lays wanton hands on it is a 
 traitor to it. And whoever insults or defames 
 it in any way, deserves, and will receive, the 
 open scorn and lasting contempt of all his 
 countrymen. Ladies and gentlemen, I have 
 done."* 
 
 The colonel resumed his seat amid a roar of 
 applause, and when it had subsided Miss Grey 
 arose to introduce the respondent.
 
 52 THE FLAG 
 
 "This beautiful flag," she said, "will now be 
 accepted, on behalf of the school, in an address 
 by one of our pupils: Master Alexander 
 Sands." 
 
 Aleck arose and made his way to the plat- 
 form. The Riverbeds applauded him vigor- 
 ously, and the guests mildly, as he went. He 
 started out bravely enough on his speech. 
 
 "Colonel Butler, teachers and guests: It 
 gives me pleasure, on behalf of the Chestnut 
 Hill public school, to accept this beautiful 
 flag-" 
 
 He made a sweeping gesture toward the 
 right-hand corner of the platform, as he had 
 done at rehearsals, only to discover that the 
 flag had, at the last moment, been shifted to the 
 left-hand corner, and he had, perforce, to turn 
 and repeat his gesture in that direction. 
 There was nothing particularly disconcerting 
 about this, but it broke the continuity of his 
 effort, it interfered with his memory, he halted, 
 colored, and cudgeled his brains to find what 
 came next. Back, in the rear of the room, 
 where the Hilltops were gathered, there was 
 an audible snicker; but Aleck was too busy to
 
 THE FLAG 53 
 
 hear it, and Miss Grey, prepared for just such 
 an emergency as this, glanced at a manuscript 
 she had in her hand, and prompted him: 
 
 "So graciously given to us " 
 
 Aleck caught the words and went on: 
 " so graciously given to us by our honored 
 townsman and patriotic citizen, Colonel Rich- 
 ard Butler." 
 
 Another pause. Again Miss Grey came to 
 the rescue. 
 
 "No words of mine " she said. 
 
 "No words of mine," repeated Aleck.' 
 
 "Sure, they're no words of yours," said 
 some one in a stage-whisper, far down in the 
 audience. 
 
 Suspicion pointed to Elmer Cuddeback, but 
 he stood there against the wall, with such an 
 innocent, sober look on his round face, that 
 people thought they must be mistaken. The 
 words had not failed to reach to the platform, 
 however, and Miss Grey, more troubled than 
 before, again had recourse to her manuscript 
 for the benefit of Aleck, who was floundering 
 more deeply than ever in the bogs of memory. 
 
 " can properly express "
 
 54 THE FLAG 
 
 " can properly express 
 
 Another pause. Again the voice back by 
 the wall: 
 
 "Express broke down; take local." 
 
 The situation was growing desperate. Miss 
 Grey was almost at her wit's end. Then a 
 bright idea struck her. She thrust the manu- 
 script into Aleck's hand. 
 
 "Oh, Aleck," she exclaimed, "take it and 
 read it!" 
 
 He grasped it like the proverbial drowning 
 man, turned it upside down and right side up, 
 but failed to find the place where he had left 
 off. 
 
 Again the insistent, high-pitched whisper 
 from the rear, breaking distinctly into the em- 
 barrassing silence: 
 
 "Can't read it, cause teacher wrote it." 
 
 This was the last straw. Slow to wrath as 
 he always was, Aleck had thus far kept his 
 temper. But this charge filled him with sud- 
 den anger and resentment. He turned his 
 eyes, blazing with fury, toward the boy by the 
 rear wall, whom he knew was baiting him, and 
 shouted :
 
 ALECK TURNED IT UPSIDE DOWN AND RIGHTSIDE UP, 
 BUT FAILED TO FIND THE PLACE 
 
 p. 54
 
 THE FLAG 55 
 
 "That's a lie, Elmer Cuddeback, and you 
 know it!" 
 
 At once confusion reigned. People stood 
 up and looked around to get a possible glimpse 
 of the object of Aleck's denunciation. Some 
 one cried: "Put him out!" 
 
 Two or three members of the Riverbeds 
 started threateningly toward Elmer, and his 
 friends struggled to get closer to him. An ex- 
 citable woman in the audience screamed. Miss 
 Grey was pounding vigorously with her gavel, 
 but to no effect. Then Colonel Butler himself 
 took matters in hand. He rose to his feet, 
 stretched out his arm, and shouted: 
 
 "Order! Order! Resume your seats!" 
 
 People sat down again. The belligerent 
 boys halted in their tracks. Everyone felt that 
 the colonel must be obeyed. He waited, in 
 commanding attitude, until order had been re- 
 stored, then he continued : 
 
 "The young gentleman who undertook to 
 respond to my address was stricken with what 
 is commonly known as stage-fright. That is 
 no discredit to him. It is a malady that at- 
 tacked so great a man and so brave a warrior as
 
 56 THE FLAG 
 
 General Grant. I may add that I, myself, 
 have suffered from it on occasion. And now 
 that order has been restored we will proceed 
 with the regular program, and Master Sands 
 will finish the delivery of his address." 
 
 He stepped back to give the respondent the 
 floor; but Master Sands was nowhere in sight. 
 In the confusion he had disappeared. The 
 colonel looked around him expectantly for a 
 moment, and then again advanced to the front 
 of the platform. 
 
 "In the absence of our young friend," he 
 said, "'whose address, I am sure, would have 
 been received with the approbation it deserves, 
 I, myself, will occupy a portion of the time 
 thus made vacant, in still further expounding 
 to you " 
 
 But at this moment, notwithstanding his ef- 
 fort to avoid it, he again caught his daughter's 
 warning look, and saw her forefinger held 
 threateningly in the air. 
 
 "I am reminded, however," he continued, 
 "by one in the audience whose judgment I am 
 bound to respect, that it is not appropriate for 
 me to make both the speech of presentation and
 
 THE FLAG 57 
 
 the address on behalf of the recipient. I will, 
 therefore, conclude by thanking you for your 
 attendance and your attention, and by again 
 adjuring you to honor, protect and preserve 
 this beautiful emblem of our national liber- 
 ties." 
 
 He had scarcely taken his seat amid the ap- 
 plause that his words always evoked, before 
 Miss Grey was on her feet announcing the 
 closing number of the program, the song 
 "America," by the entire audience. 
 
 Whether it was due to the excitement of the 
 occasion, or, as the colonel afterward modestly 
 suggested, to the spirit of patriotism aroused 
 by his remarks, it is a fact that no one present 
 had ever before heard the old song sung with 
 more vim and feeling. 
 
 The audience was dismissed. 
 
 Colonel Butler's friends came forward to 
 congratulate and thank him. The Hilltops, 
 chuckling gleefully, with Elmer Cuddeback in 
 their center, marched off up-town. The Riv- 
 erbeds, downcast and revengeful, made their 
 way down the hill. But Aleck Sands was not 
 with them. He had already left the school-
 
 58 THE FLAG 
 
 building and had gone home. He was angry 
 and bitterly resentful. He felt that he could 
 have faced any one, at any time, in open war- 
 fare, but to be humiliated and ridiculed in pub- 
 lic, that was more than even his phlegmatic 
 nature could stand. He could not forget it. 
 He could not forgive those who had caused 
 it. Days, weeks, years were not sufficient to 
 blot entirely from his heart the feeling of 
 revenge that entered it that winter after- 
 noon. 
 
 It was late on the same day that Colonel 
 Butler stood with his back to the blazing wood- 
 fire in the library, waiting for his supper to 
 be served, and looking out into the hall on the 
 folds of the handsome, silk, American flag 
 draped against the wall. There had always 
 been a flag in the hall. Colonel Butler's father 
 had placed one there when he built the house 
 and went to live in it. And when, later on, 
 the colonel fell heir to the property, and rebuilt 
 and modernized the home, he replaced the old 
 flag of bunting with the present one of silk. 
 Indeed, it was on account of the place and 
 prominence given to the flag that the home-
 
 THE FLAG 59 
 
 stead had been known for many years as Ban- 
 nerhall. 
 
 Pen sat at the library table preparing his 
 lessons for the following day. 
 
 "Well, Penfield," said the'colonel, "a what 
 did you think of my speech to-day?" 
 
 "I thought it was great," replied Pen. 
 "Pretty near as good as the one you delivered 
 last Memorial Day." 
 
 The colonel smiled with satisfaction. "Yes," 
 he remarked, "I, myself, thought it was pretty 
 good; or would have been if your aunt Milli- 
 cent had permitted me to complete it. It was 
 also unfortunate that your young friend was 
 not able fully to carry out his part of the pro- 
 gram." 
 
 "You mean Aleck Sands?" 
 
 "I believe that is the young gentleman's 
 
 name." 
 
 "He's not my friend, grandfather." 
 "Tut! Tut! You should not harbor re- 
 sentment because of his having outwitted you 
 in the matter of procuring the flag. Espe- 
 cially in view of his discomfiture of to-day." 
 "It wasn't my fault that he flunked."
 
 60 THE FLAG 
 
 "I am not charging you with that responsi- 
 bility, sir. I am simply appealing to your 
 generosity. By the way, I understand I 
 have learned this afternoon, that there exists 
 what may be termed a feud between the boys 
 of Chestnut Hill and those of Chestnut Valley. 
 Have I been correctly informed?" 
 
 "Why, yes; I guess I suppose you might 
 call it that." 
 
 "And I have been informed also that you 
 are the leader of what are facetiously termed 
 the 'Hilltops,' and that our young friend, Mas- 
 ter Sands, is the leader of what are termed, 
 still more facetiously, the 'Riverbeds.' Is this 
 true?" 
 
 Pen closed his book and hesitated. He felt 
 that a reproof was coming, to be followed, per- 
 haps, by strict orders concerning his own neu- 
 trality. 
 
 "Well," he stammered, "I I guess that's 
 about right. Anyway our fellows sort o' de- 
 pend on me to help 'em hold their own." 
 
 Pen was not looking at his grandfather. If 
 he had been he would have seen a twinkle of 
 satisfaction in the old gentleman's eyes. It
 
 THE FLAG 61 
 
 was something for a veteran of the civil war to 
 have a grandson who had been chosen to the 
 leadership of his fellows for the purpose of en- 
 gaging in juvenile hostilities. So there was 
 no shadow of reproof in the colonel's voice as 
 he asked his next question. 
 
 "And what, may I inquire, is, or has been, 
 the casus belli?' 3 
 
 "The what, sir?" 
 
 "The a cause or causes which have pro- 
 duced the present state of hostility." 
 
 "Why, I don't know nothing in particular, 
 I guess only they're all the time doing mean 
 things, and boasting they can lick us if we give 
 'em a chance; and I I'm for giving 'em the 
 chance." 
 
 Reproof or no reproof, he had spoken his 
 mind. He had risen from his chair, and stood 
 before his grandfather with determination 
 written in every line of his flushed face. Col- 
 onel Butler looked at him and chuckled. 
 
 "Very good!" he said. He chuckled again 
 and repeated: "Very good!" 
 
 Pen stared at him in astonishment. He 
 could not quite understand his attitude.
 
 62 THE FLAG 
 
 "Now, Penfield," continued the old gentle- 
 man, "mind you, I do not approve of petty 
 jealousies and quarrelings, nor of causeless as- 
 saults. But, when any person is assailed, it is 
 his peculiar privilege, sir, to hit back. And 
 when he hits he should hit hard. He should 
 use both strategy and force. He should see 
 to it, sir, that his enemy is punished. Have 
 your two hostile bodies yet met in open con- 
 flict on the field?" 
 
 "Why," replied Pen, still amazed at the 
 course things were taking, "we've had one or 
 two rather lively little scraps. But I suppose, 
 after what happened today, they'll want to 
 fight. If they do want to, we're ready for 
 'em." 
 
 The colonel had left his place in front of 
 the fire, and was pacing up and down the 
 room. 
 
 "Very good!" he exclaimed, "very good! 
 Men and nations should always be prepared 
 for conflict. To that end young men should 
 learn the art of fighting, so that when the call 
 to arms comes, as I foresee that it will come, 
 the nation will be ready."
 
 THE FLAG 63 
 
 He stopped in his walk and faced his grand- 
 son. 
 
 "Not that I deprecate the arts of peace, Pen- 
 field. By no means! It is by those arts that 
 nations have grown great. But, in my hum- 
 ble judgment, sir, as a citizen and a soldier, 
 the only way to preserve peace, and to ensure 
 greatness, is to be at all times ready for war. 
 We must instil the martial spirit into our 
 young men, we must rouse their fighting blood, 
 we must teach them the art of war, so that if 
 the flag is ever insulted or assailed they will be 
 ready to protect it with their bodies and their 
 blood. Learn to fight; to fight honorably, 
 bravely, skillfully, and to fight hard." 
 
 "Father Richard Butler!" 
 
 It was Aunt Millicent who spoke. She had 
 come on them from the hall unawares, and had 
 overheard the final words of the colonel's ad- 
 juration. 
 
 "Father Richard Butler," she repeated, 
 "what heresy is this you are teaching to 
 Pen?" 
 
 He made a brave but hopeless effort to jus- 
 tify his course.
 
 &4 THE FLAG 
 
 "I am teaching him," he replied, "the duty 
 that devolves upon every patriotic citizen." 
 
 "Patriotic fiddlesticks!" she exclaimed. "I 
 have no patience with such blood-thirsty doc- 
 trines. And, Pen, listen! If I ever hear of 
 your fighting with anybody, at any time, you'll 
 have your aunt ^lillicent to deal with, I prom- 
 ise you that. Now come to supper, both of 
 you!" 
 
 It was not until nearly the close of the after- 
 noon session on the following day that Miss 
 Grey referred to the unfortunate incident of 
 the day before. She expressed her keen re- 
 gret, and her sense of humiliation, over the oc- 
 currence that had marred the program, and 
 requested Elmer Cuddeback, Aleck Sands and 
 Penfield Butler to remain after school that she 
 might confer with them concerning some 
 proper form of apology to Colonel Butler. 
 But when she had the three boys alone with 
 her, and referred to the shameful discourtesy 
 with which the donor of the flag had been 
 treated, tears came into her eyes, and her 
 voice trembled to the point of breaking. Xo 
 one could have helped feeling sorry for her;
 
 THE FLAG 65 
 
 especially the three boys who were most con- 
 cerned. 
 
 '"I don't think," said Pen, consolingly, "that 
 grandfather minded it very much. He doesn't 
 talk as if he did." 
 
 ''Let us hope." she replied, "that he was not 
 too greatly shocked, or too deeply disgusted. 
 Elmer, your conduct was wholly inexcusable, 
 and I'm going to punish you. But, Pen, you 
 and Aleck are the leaders, and I want this dis- 
 graceful feud between you up-town and down- 
 town boys to stop. I want you both to prom- 
 ise me that this will be the end of it." 
 
 She looked from one to the other appeal- 
 ingly, but, for a moment, neither boy replied. 
 Then Aleck spoke up. 
 
 "Our fellows/" he said, "feel pretty sore over 
 the way I was treated yesterday: and I don't 
 believe they'd be willing to give up till they 
 get even somehow." 
 
 To which Pen responded : 
 
 "They're welcome to try to get even if they 
 want to. We're ready for 'em." 
 
 Miss Grey threw up her hands in despair. 
 
 "Oh, boys! boys!" she exclaimed. **\Vhy
 
 66 THE FLAG 
 
 will you be so foolish and obstinate? What 
 kind of men do you suppose you'll make if you 
 spend your school-days quarreling and fight- 
 ing with each other?" 
 
 "Well, I don't know," replied Pen. "My 
 grandfather thinks it isn't such a bad idea for 
 boys to try their mettle on each other, so long 
 as they fight fair. He thinks they'll make 
 better soldiers sometime. And he says the 
 country is going to need soldiers after 
 awhile." 
 
 She looked up in surprise. 
 
 "But I don't want my boys to become sol- 
 diers," she protested. "I don't want war. I 
 don't believe in it. I hate it." 
 
 She had reason to hate war, for her own 
 father had been wounded at Chancellorsville, 
 and she remembered her mother's long years 
 of privation and sorrow. Again her lip trem- 
 bled and her eyes filled with tears. There was 
 an awkward pause; for each boy sympathized 
 with her and would have been willing to help 
 her had a way been opened that would not in- 
 volve too much of sacrifice. Elmer Cudde- 
 back, even in the face of his forthcoming pun-
 
 THE FLAG 67 
 
 ishment, was still the most tenderhearted of 
 the three, and he struggled to her relief. 
 
 "Can't can't we make some sort o' com- 
 promise?" he suggested. 
 
 But Pen, too, had been thinking, and an 
 idea had occurred to him. And before any 
 reply could be made to Elmer's suggestion he 
 offered his own solution to the difficulty. 
 
 "I'll tell you what I'll do, Miss Grey," he 
 said, "and what I'll get our fellows to do. 
 We'll have one, big snow-ball fight. And the 
 side that gets licked '11 stay licked till school's 
 out next spring. And there won't be an} 7 more 
 scrapping all winter. We'll do that, won't we, 
 Elmer?" 
 
 "Sure we will," responded Elmer confi- 
 dently. 
 
 Aleck did not reply. Miss Grey thought 
 deeply for a full minute. Perhaps, after all, 
 Pen's proposition pointed to the best way out 
 of the difficulty. Indeed, it was the only way 
 along which there now seemed to be any light. 
 She turned to Aleck. 
 
 "Well," she asked, "what do you think of 
 it?"
 
 68 THE FLAG 
 
 "Why, I don't know," he replied. "I'd like 
 to talk with some of our fellows about it 
 first." 
 
 He was always cautious, conservative, slow 
 to act unless the emergency called for action. 
 
 "No," replied Pen. "I won't wait. It's a 
 fair offer, and you'll take it now or let it alone." 
 
 "Then," said Aleck, doggedly, "I'll take it, 
 and you'll be sorry you ever made it." 
 
 Lest active hostilities should break out at 
 once, Miss Grey interrupted : 
 
 "Now, boys, I don't approve of it. I don't 
 approve of it at all. I think young men like 
 you should be in better business than pelting 
 each other, even with snow-balls. But, as it 
 appears to be the only way out of the difficulty, 
 and in the hope that it will put an end to this 
 ridiculous feud, I'm willing that you should 
 go ahead and try it. Do it and have it over 
 with as soon as possible, and don't let me know 
 when it's going to happen, or anything about 
 it, until you're all through." 
 
 It was with deep misgivings concerning the 
 success of the plan that she dismissed the boys ; 
 and more than once during the next few days
 
 THE FLAG 69 
 
 she was on the point of withdrawing her per- 
 mission for the fight to take place. Many 
 times afterwards she regretted keenly that she 
 had not done so.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 WHEN Pen told his grandfather that a 
 snowball fight had been decided upon as the 
 method of settling the controversy between 
 the Hilltops and the Riverbeds, and that Miss 
 Grey had given her permission to that effect, 
 the old gentleman chuckled gleefully. 
 
 "A very wise young woman," he said; "very 
 wise indeed. When will the sanguinary con- 
 flict take place?" 
 
 "Why," replied Pen, "the first day the snow 
 melts good." 
 
 "I see. I suppose you will lead the forces 
 of Chestnut Hill?" 
 
 "I expect to; yes, sir." 
 
 "And our young friend, Master Sands, will 
 marshal the troops of the Valley?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; I suppose so." 
 
 "You will have to look out for that young 
 man, Penfield. He strikes me as being very 
 much of a strategist."
 
 THE FLAG 71 
 
 "I'm not afraid of him." 
 
 "Don't be over-confident. Over-confidence 
 has lost many a battle." 
 
 "Well, we'll lick 'em anyway. We've got 
 to." 
 
 "That's the proper spirit. Determination, 
 persistence, bravery, hard- fighting Hush! 
 Here comes your aunt Millicent." 
 
 Colonel Butler was as bold as a lion in the 
 presence of every one save his daughter. 
 Against her determination his resolution 
 melted like April snow. She loved him de- 
 votedly, she cared for him tenderly, but she 
 ruled him with a rod of iron. In only one mat- 
 ter did his stubborn will hold out effectually 
 against hers. No persuasion, no demand on 
 her part, could induce him to change his atti- 
 tude towards Pen's mother. He chose to con- 
 sider his daughter-in-law absolutely and per- 
 manently outside of his family, and outside of 
 his consideration, and there the matter had 
 rested for a decade, and was likely to rest so 
 long as he drew breath. 
 
 That night, after Pen had retired to his 
 room, there came a gentle knock at his open
 
 72 THE FLAG 
 
 door. His grandfather stood there, holding 
 in his hand a small volume of Upton's mili- 
 tary tactics which he had used in the Civil War. 
 
 "I thought this book might be of some ser- 
 vice to you, Penfield," he explained. "It will 
 give you a good idea of the proper methods to 
 be used in handling large or small bodies of 
 troops." 
 
 "Thank you, grandfather," said Pen, taking 
 the book. "I'll study it. I'm sure it'll help 
 me." 
 
 "Nevertheless," continued the colonel, 
 "there must be courage and persistency as well 
 as tactics, if battles are to be won. You un- 
 derstand?" 
 
 "Yes, grandfather." 
 
 The old man turned away, but turned back 
 again. 
 
 "A Penfield," he said, "when you are ab- 
 sent from your room will you kindly have the 
 book in such a locality that your Aunt Milli- 
 cent will not readily discover it?" 
 
 "Yes, grandfather." 
 
 The winter weather at Chestnut Hill was 
 not favorable for war. The mercury lingered
 
 THE FLAG 73 
 
 in the neighborhood of zero day after day. 
 Snow fell, drifted, settled; but did not melt. 
 It was plain that ammunition could not be 
 made of such material. So the battle was de- 
 layed. But the opposing forces nevertheless 
 utilized the time. There were secret drills. 
 There were open discussions. Plans of cam- 
 paign were regularly adopted, and as regu- 
 larly discarded. Yet both sides were con- 
 stantly ready. 
 
 A strange result of the situation was that 
 there had not been better feeling between the 
 factions for many months. Good-natured 
 boasts there were, indeed. But of malice, 
 meanness, open resentment, there was nothing. 
 Every one was willing to waive opportunities 
 for skirmishing, in anticipation of the one big 
 battle. 
 
 It was well along in February before the 
 weather moderated. Then, one night, it grew 
 warm. The next morning gray fog lay over 
 all the snow-fields. Rivulets of water ran in 
 the gutters, and little pools formed in low 
 places everywhere. War time had at last 
 come. Evidently nature intended this to be
 
 74 THE FLAG 
 
 the battle day. It was Saturday and there 
 was no session of the school. 
 
 The commander of the Hilltops called his 
 forces together early, and a plan of battle was 
 definitely formed. Messengers, carrying a 
 flag of truce, communicated with the River- 
 beds, and it was agreed that the fight should 
 take place that afternoon on the vacant plot 
 in the rear of the school building. It was 
 thought best by the Hilltops, however, to re- 
 connoiter in force, and to prepare the field for 
 the conflict. So, sixteen strong, they went 
 forth to the place selected for the fray. They 
 saw nothing of the enemy ; the lot was still va- 
 cant. They began immediately to throw up 
 breast-works. They rolled huge snowballs 
 down the slightly sloping ground to the spot 
 selected for a fort. These snowballs were so 
 big that, by the time they reached their desti- 
 nation, it took at least a half dozen boys to put 
 each one into place. They squared them up, 
 and laid them carefully in a curved line ten 
 blocks long and three blocks high, with the re- 
 quisite embrasures. Then they prepared their 
 ammunition. They made snowballs by the
 
 THE FLAG 75 
 
 score, and piled them in convenient heaps in- 
 side the barricade. By the time this work was 
 finished it was noon. Then, leaving a suf- 
 ficient force to guard the fortifications, the re- 
 mainder of the troops sallied forth to luncheon, 
 among them the leader of the Hilltops. At 
 the luncheon table Pen took advantage of the 
 temporary absence of his aunt to inform his 
 grandfather, in a stage-whisper, that the long 
 anticipated fight was scheduled for that after- 
 noon. 
 
 "And," he added, "we've got the biggest 
 snow fort you ever saw, and dead loads of 
 snowballs inside." 
 
 The colonel smiled and his eyes twinkled. 
 
 "Good!" he whispered back. "Smite them 
 hip and thigh. Hold the fort! 'Stand: the 
 ground's your own, my braves !' ' 
 
 "We're ready for anything." 
 
 "Bravo! Beware of the enemy's strategy, 
 and fight hard. Fight as if ah! your Aunt 
 Millicent's coming." 
 
 At one o'clock the first division returned and 
 relieved the garrison; and at two every soldier 
 was back and in his place. The breast-works
 
 76 THE FLAG 
 
 were strengthened, more ammunition was 
 made, and heaps of raw material for making 
 still more were conveniently placed. But the 
 enemy did not put in an appearance. A half 
 hour went by, and another half hour, and the 
 head of the first hostile soldier was yet to be 
 seen approaching above the crest of the hill. 
 Crowds of small boys, non-combatants, were 
 lined up against the school-house, awaiting, 
 with anxiety and awe, the coming battle. Out 
 in the road a group of girls, partisans of the 
 Hilltops, was assembled to cheer their friends 
 on to victoiy. Men, passing by on foot and 
 with teams, stopped to inquire concerning the 
 war-like preparations, and some of them, on 
 whose hands it may be that time was hanging 
 heavily, stood around awaiting the outbreak 
 of hostilities. 
 
 Still the enemy was nowhere in sight. A 
 squad, under command of Lieutenant Cudde- 
 back, was sent out to the road to reconnoiter. 
 They returned and reported that they had been 
 to the brow of the hill, but had failed to dis- 
 cover any hostile troops. Was it possible that 
 the Riverbeds had weakened, backed out, de-
 
 THE FLAG 77 
 
 cided, like the cowards that they were, not to 
 fight, after all? It was in the midst of an ani- 
 mated discussion over this possibility that the 
 defenders of the fort were startled by piercing 
 yells from the neighborhood of the stone fence 
 that bounded the schoolhouse lot in the rear. 
 Looking in that direction they were thunder- 
 struck to see the enemy's soldiers pouring over 
 the wall and advancing vigorously toward 
 them. With rare strategy the Riverbeds, in- 
 stead of approaching by the front, had come up 
 the hill on the back road, crept along under 
 cover of barns and fences until the school- 
 house lot was reached, and now, with terrific 
 shouts, were crossing the stone-wall to hurl 
 themselves impetuously on the foe. 
 
 For a moment consternation reigned within 
 the fort. The surprise was overwhelming. 
 Pen was the first one, as he should have been, 
 to recover his wits. He remembered his 
 grandfather's warning against the enemy's 
 strategy. 
 
 "It's a trick!" he shouted. "Don't let 'em 
 scare you! Load up and at 'em!" 
 
 Every boy seized his complement of snow-
 
 78 THE FLAG 
 
 balls, and, led by their captain, the Hilltops 
 started out, on double-quick, to meet the 
 enemy. 
 
 The next moment the air was filled with 
 flying missiles. They were fired at close 
 range, and few, from either side, failed to 
 find their mark. 
 
 The battle was swift and fierce. An on- 
 slaught from the Riverbeds' left, drove the 
 right wing of the Hilltops back into the shadow 
 of the fort. But the center held its ground 
 and fought furiously. Then the broken right 
 wing, supplied with fresh ammunition from the 
 reserve piles, rallied, forced the invaders back, 
 turned their flank, and fell on them from the 
 rear. The Riverbeds, with ammunition all but 
 exhausted, were hard beset. They fought 
 bravely and persistently but they could not 
 stand up before the terrific rain of missiles that 
 was poured in on them. They yielded, they 
 retreated, but they went with their faces to the 
 foe. There was only one avenue of escape, 
 and that was down by the side of the school- 
 house to the public road. It was inch by inch 
 that they withdrew. No army ever beat a
 
 THE FLAG 79 
 
 more stubborn or masterly retreat. In the 
 face of certain defeat, at scarcely arm's length 
 from their shouting and exultant foe, they 
 fought like heroes. 
 
 Pen Butler was in the thickest and hottest 
 of the fray. He urged his troops to the as- 
 sault, and was not afraid to lead them. The 
 militant blood of his ancestors burned in his 
 veins, and, if truth must be told, it trickled in 
 little streams down his face from a battered 
 nose and a cut lip received at a close quarter's 
 struggle with the enemy. 
 
 The small boys by the schoolhouse, seeing 
 the line of battle approaching them, beat a re- 
 treat to a less hazardous position. The girls 
 in the road clung to each other and looked on, 
 fascinated and awe-stricken at the furious 
 fight, forgetting to wave a single handkerchief, 
 or emit a single cheer. The men on the side- 
 path clapped their hands and yelled encourage- 
 ment to one or other of the contending forces, 
 in accordance with their sympathies. 
 
 The first of the retreating troops, still con- 
 testing stubbornly the foe's advance, reached 
 the corner of the schoolhouse nearest the public
 
 80 THE FLAG 
 
 road. By some chance the entrance door of 
 the building was ajar. A soldier's quick eye 
 discovered it. Here was shelter, protection, a 
 chance to recuperate and reform. He shouted 
 the good news to his comrades, pushed the door 
 open and entered. By twos and threes, and 
 then in larger groups, they followed him until 
 the very last man of them was safe inside, and 
 the door was slammed shut and locked in the 
 faces of the foe. Under the impetus of the 
 charge the victorious troops broke against the 
 barrier, but it held firm. That it did so hold 
 was one of the providential occurrences of the 
 day. So, at last, the Hilltops were foiled and 
 baffled. Their victory was not complete. 
 Pen stood on the top step at the entrance, his 
 face smeared with blood, and angrily declared 
 his determination, by one means or another, to 
 hunt the enemy out from their place of shel- 
 ter, and drive them down the hill into their own 
 riverbed, where they belonged. But, in spite 
 of his extravagant declaration, nothing could 
 be done without a breach of the law. Doors 
 and windows must not be broken. Tempor- 
 arily, at least, the enemy was safe.
 
 THE FLAG 81 
 
 After a consultation among the Hilltops it 
 was decided to take up a position across the 
 road from the schoolhouse, and await the emer- 
 gence of the foe. But the foe appeared to be 
 in no haste to emerge. It was warm inside. 
 They were safe from attack. They could take 
 their ease and wait. And they did. The min- 
 utes passed. A half hour went by. A driz- 
 zling rain had set in, and the young soldiers at 
 the roadside were getting uncomfortably wet. 
 The small boys, who had looked on, departed 
 by twos and threes. The girls, after cheering 
 the heroes of the fight, also sought shelter. 
 The men, who had been interested spectators 
 while the battle was on, drifted away. It isn't 
 encouraging to stand out in the rain, doing 
 nothing but stamping wet feet, and wait for a 
 beaten foe to come out. Enthusiasm for a 
 cause is apt to wane when one has to stand, 
 shivering, in rain-soaked clothes, and wait for 
 something to occur. And enthusiasm did 
 wane. A majority of the boys wanted to call 
 it a victory and go home. But Pen would not 
 listen to such a proposal. 
 
 "They've run into the schoolhouse," he said,
 
 82 THE FLAG 
 
 "like whipped dogs, and locked the door; and 
 now, if we go home, they'll come out and boast 
 that we were afraid to meet 'em again. They'll 
 say that we slunk away before the fight was 
 half over. I won't let 'em say that. I'll stay 
 here all night but what I'll give 'em the final 
 drubbing." 
 
 But his comrades were not equally deter- 
 mined. The war spirit seemed to have died 
 out in their breasts, and, try as he would, Pen 
 was not able to restore it. 
 
 Yet, even as he argued, the schoolhouse door 
 opened and the besieged army marched forth. 
 They marched forth, indeed, but this time they 
 had an American flag at the head of their col- 
 umn. It was carried by, and folded and 
 draped around the body of, Alexander Sands. 
 It was the flag that Colonel Butler had given 
 to the school. Whose idea it was to use it thus 
 has never been disclosed. But surely no more 
 effective means could have been adopted to 
 cover an orderly retreat. The Hilltop forces 
 stared at the spectacle in amazement and stood 
 silent in their tracks. Pen was the first to re- 
 cover his senses. If he had been angry when
 
 THE FLAG 83 
 
 the enemy came upon them unawares from the 
 stone-wall, he was furious now. 
 
 "It's another trick!" he cried, "a mean, con- 
 temptible trick! They think the flag'll save 
 'em but it won't! Come on! We'll show 
 'em!" 
 
 He started toward the advancing column, 
 firing his first snowball as he went; a snowball 
 that flattened and spattered against the flag- 
 covered breast of Aleck Sands. But his sol- 
 diers did not follow him. No leader, however 
 magnetic, could have induced them to assault 
 a body of troops marching under the protect- 
 ing folds of the American flag. They revered 
 the colors, and they stood fast in their places. 
 Pen leaped the ditch, and, finding himself 
 alone, stopped to look back. 
 
 "What's the matter?" he cried. "Are you 
 all afraid?" 
 
 "It's the flag," answered Elmer Cudde- 
 back, "and I won't fight anybody that carries 
 it." 
 
 "Nor I," said Jimmie Morrissey. 
 
 "Nor I;" "Nor I," echoed one after an- 
 other.
 
 84 THE FLAG 
 
 Then, indeed, Pen's temper went to fever 
 heat. He faced his own troops and denounced 
 them. 
 
 "Traitors!" he yelled. "Cowards! every 
 one of you! To be scared by a mere piece of 
 bunting! Babies! Go home and have your 
 mothers put you to bed! I'll fight 'em single- 
 handed!" 
 
 He was as good as his word. He plunged 
 toward the head of the column, which had al- 
 ready reached the middle of the public road. 
 
 "Don't you dare to touch the flag!" cried 
 Aleck. 
 
 "And don't you dare to tell me what I shall 
 not touch," retorted Pen. "Drop it, or I'll 
 tear it off of vou." 
 
 tt 
 
 But Aleck only drew the folds more tightly 
 about him and braced himself for the onset. 
 He clutched the staff with one hand; and the 
 other hand, duly clenched, he thrust into his 
 adversary's face. For a moment Pen was 
 staggered by the blow, then he gathered him- 
 self together and leaped upon his opponent. 
 The fight was on: fast and furious. The fol- 
 lowers of each leader, appalled at the fierce-
 
 THE FLAG 85 
 
 ness of the combat, stood as though frozen in 
 their places. The flag, clutched by both fight- 
 ers, was in danger of being torn from end to 
 end. Then came the clinch. Gripping, writh- 
 ing, twisting, tangled in the colors, the lithe 
 young bodies wavered to their fall. And when 
 they fell the flag fell with them, into the grime 
 and slush of the road. In an instant Pen was 
 on his feet again, but Aleck did not rise. He 
 pulled himself slowly to his elbow and looked 
 around him as though half-dazed. 
 
 That Pen was the victor there was no doubt. 
 His face streaked with blood and distorted with 
 passion, he stood there and glared triumphantly 
 on friend and foe alike. That he was standing 
 on the flag mattered little to him in that mo- 
 ment. He was like one crazed. Some one 
 shouted to him : 
 
 "Get off the flag! You're standing on it!" 
 
 "What's that to you?" he yelled back. "I'll 
 stand where I like!" 
 
 "It's the flag of your country. Get off of 
 it!" 
 
 "What do I care for my country or for you. 
 I've won this fight, single-handed, in spite of
 
 86 THE FLAG 
 
 any flag, or any country, or any coward here, 
 and I'll stand where I choose 1" 
 
 He stood fast in his place and glared defi- 
 antly about him, and in all the company there 
 was not one who dared approach him. 
 
 But it was only for a moment. Some im- 
 pulse moved him to look down. Under his 
 heels the white stars on their blue field were 
 being ground into the mire. A sudden re- 
 vulsion of feeling swept over him, a sense of 
 horror at his own conduct. His arms fell to 
 his sides. His face paled till the blood splashes 
 on it stood out startlingly distinct. He moved 
 slowly and carefully backward till the folds of 
 the banner were no longer under his feet. He 
 cast one fleeting glance at his worsted ad- 
 versary who was still half-lying, half -sitting, 
 with the flag under his elbows, then, his passion 
 quenched, shame and remorse over his un- 
 patriotic conduct filling his heart, without an- 
 other word he turned his back on his compan- 
 ions, thrust his bleeding hands into his pockets, 
 and started up the road, toward home ; his one 
 thought being to leave as quickly and quietly 
 as possible the scene of his disgrace. No one
 
 THE FLAG 87 
 
 followed him, no one called after him ; he went 
 alone. He was hatless and ragged. His 
 rain-soaked garments clung to him with an in- 
 describable chill. The fire of his anger had 
 burned itself out, and had left in its place the 
 ashes of despondency and despair. Yet, even 
 in that hour of depression and self -accusation, 
 he did not dream of the far-reaching con- 
 sequences of this one unpremeditated act of 
 inexcusable folly of which he had just been 
 guilty. He bent down and gathered some wet 
 snow into his hands and bathed his face, and 
 sopped it half dry with his handkerchief, al- 
 ready soaked. Then, not caring, in his condi- 
 tion, to show himself on the main street of the 
 village, he crossed over to the lane that skirted 
 the out-lots, and went thence by a circuitous 
 and little traveled route, to Bannerhall. 
 
 In the meantime, back in the road by the 
 schoolhouse, Aleck Sands had picked himself 
 up, still a little dazed, but not seriously hurt, 
 and soldiers who had recently faced each other 
 in battle came with unanimity to the rescue of 
 the flag. Hilltops and Riverbeds alike, all 
 differences and enmities forgotten in this new
 
 88 THE FLAG 
 
 crisis, they joined in gathering up the wet and 
 muddy folds, and in bearing them to the 
 warmth and shelter of the schoolhouse. Here 
 they washed out the stains, and stretched the 
 banner out to dry, and at dusk, exhausted and 
 sobered by the events of the day, with serious 
 faces and apprehensive hearts, they went to 
 their several homes.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 WHEN Pen reached home on that afternoon 
 after the battle of Chestnut Hill, he found that 
 his Aunt Millicent was out, and that his 
 grandfather had not yet returned from Low- 
 bridge, the county seat, fourteen miles away. 
 He had therefore an opportunity, unseen and 
 unquestioned, to change his wet clothing for 
 dry, and to bathe and anoint and otherwise care 
 for his cuts and bruises. When it was all done 
 he went down to the library and lighted the gas, 
 and found a book and tried to read. But the 
 words he read were meaningless. Try as he 
 would he could not keep his mind on the printed 
 page. Nor was it so much the snowball fight 
 that occupied his thoughts. He was not now 
 exulting at any victory he had obtained over 
 his foes. He was not even dwelling on the 
 strategy and trickery displayed by Aleck 
 Sands and his followers in seeking protection 
 under the folds of the flag; strategy and trick-
 
 90 THE FLAG 
 
 ery which had led so swiftly and sharply to his 
 own undoing. It was his conduct in that last, 
 fierce moment of the fight that was blazoned 
 constantly before his eyes with ever increasing 
 strength of accusation. To think that he, 
 Penfield Butler, grandson of the owner of Ban- 
 nerhall, had permitted himself, in a moment of 
 passion, no matter what the provocation, to 
 grind his country's flag into the slush under his 
 heels ; the very flag given by his grandfather to 
 the school of which he was himself a member. 
 How should he ever square himself with Col- 
 onel Richard Butler? How should he ever 
 make it right with Miss Grey? How should 
 he ever satisfy his own accusing conscience? 
 Excuses for his conduct were plenty enough 
 indeed ; his excitement, his provocation, his free- 
 dom from malice ; he marshalled them in orderly 
 array; but, under the cold logic of events, one 
 by one they crumbled and fell away. More 
 and more heavily, more and more depressingly 
 the enormity of his offense weighed upon him 
 as he considered it, and what the outcome of it 
 all would be he did not even dare to conjec- 
 ture.
 
 THE FLAG 91 
 
 At half past five his Aunt Millicent returned. 
 She looked in at him from the hall, greeted him 
 pleasantly, said something about the miserable 
 weather, and then went on about her house- 
 hold duties. 
 
 Dinner had been waiting for fifteen minutes 
 before Colonel Butler reached home, and, in 
 the mild excitement attendant upon his return, 
 Pen's injuries escaped notice. But, at the din- 
 ner-table, under the brightness of the hanging 
 lamps, he could no longer conceal his condi- 
 tion. Aunt Millicent was the first to discover 
 it. 
 
 "Why, Pen !" she exclaimed, "what on earth 
 has happened to you?" 
 
 And Pen answered, frankly enough: 
 
 "I've been in a snowball fight, Aunt Milly." 
 
 "Well, I should say so!" she replied. "Your 
 face is a perfect sight. Father, just look at 
 Pen's face." 
 
 Colonel Butler adjusted his eye-glasses 
 deliberately, and looked as he was bidden to 
 do. 
 
 "Some rather severe contusions," he re- 
 marked. "A bit painful, Penfield?"
 
 92 THE FLAG 
 
 "Not so very," replied Pen, "I washed 'em 
 off and put on some Pond's extract, and some 
 court-plaster, and I guess they'll be all 
 right." 
 
 The colonel was still looking at Pen's 
 wounds, and smiling as he looked. 
 
 "The nature of the injuries," he said, "in- 
 dicates that the righting must have been some- 
 what strenuous. But honorable scars, won on 
 the field of battle, are something in which any 
 man may take pardonable " 
 
 "Father Richard Butler!" exclaimed Aunt 
 Millicent. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself! 
 Pen, let this be the last snowball fight you in- 
 dulge in while you live in this house. Do you 
 hear me ?" 
 
 "Yes, Aunt Millicent. There won't be any 
 more; not any more at all." 
 
 "I should hope not," she replied; "with such 
 a looking face as you've got." 
 
 Colonel Butler was temporarily subdued. 
 Only the merry twinkle in his eyes, and the 
 smile that hovered about the corners of his 
 mouth, still attested the satisfaction he was feel- 
 ing in his grandson's military prowess. He
 
 THE FLAG 93 
 
 could not, however, restrain his curiosity until 
 the end of the meal, and, at the risk of evok- 
 ing another rebuke from his daughter, he in- 
 quired of Pen : 
 
 "A Penfield, may I ask in which direction 
 the tide of battle finally turned?" 
 
 "I believe we licked 'em, grandfather," re- 
 plied Pen. "We drove 'em into the school- 
 house anyway." 
 
 "Not, I presume, before some severe pre- 
 liminary fighting had taken place?" 
 
 "There you go again, father!" exclaimed 
 Aunt Millicent. "It's nothing but 'fighting, 
 fighting,' from morning to night. What kind 
 of a man do you think Pen will grow up to 
 be, with such training as this?" 
 
 "A very useful, brave and patriotic citizen, 
 I hope, my dear." 
 
 "Fiddlesticks!" It was Aunt Millicent's 
 favorite ejaculation. But the colonel did not 
 refer to the battle again at the table. It was 
 not until after he had retired to the library, and 
 had taken up his favorite position, his back to 
 the fire, his eyes resting on the silken banner 
 in the hall, that he plied Pen with further ques-
 
 94 THE FLAG 
 
 tions. His daughter not being in the room he 
 felt that he might safely resume the subject 
 of the fight. 
 
 "I would like a full report of the battle, Pen- 
 field," he said. "It appears to me that it is 
 likely to go down as a most important event in 
 the history of the school." 
 
 Pen shook his head deprecatingly, but he did 
 not at once reply. Impatient at the delay, 
 which he ascribed to the modesty characteristic 
 of the brave and successful soldier, the colonel 
 began to make more definite inquiry. 
 
 "In what manner was the engagement 
 opened, Penfield?" 
 
 And Pen replied: 
 
 "Well, you know we built a snow fort in the 
 schoolhouse lot ; and they sneaked up the back 
 road, and cut across lots where we couldn't see 
 'em, and jumped on us suddenly from the 
 stone- wall." 
 
 "Strategy, my boy. Military strategy de- 
 serving of a good cause. And how did you 
 meet the attack?" 
 
 "Why, we pulled ourselves together and 
 went for 'em."
 
 THE FLAG 95 
 
 "Well? Well? What happened?" 
 
 The colonel was getting excited and impa- 
 tient. 
 
 "Well, we fought 'em and drove 'em down 
 to the front of the school-house, and then they 
 opened the door and sneaked in, just as I told 
 you, and locked us out." 
 
 "Ah! more strategy. The enemy had 
 brains. But you should have laid siege and 
 starved him out." 
 
 "We did lay siege, grandfather." 
 
 "And did you starve him out?" 
 
 "No, they came out." 
 
 "And you renewed the attack?" 
 
 "Some of us did." 
 
 "Well, go on! go on! What happened? 
 Don't compel me to drag the story out of you 
 piecemeal, this way." 
 
 "Why, they they played us another mean 
 trick." 
 
 "What was the nature of it?" 
 
 "Well you know that flag you gave the 
 school?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "They carried that flag ahead of 'em, Aleck
 
 96 THE FLAG 
 
 Sands had it wrapped around him, and then 
 our fellows were afraid to fight." 
 
 "Strategy again. Military genius, indeed! 
 But it strikes me, Penfield, that the strategy 
 was a bit unworthy." 
 
 "I, thought it was a low-down trick." 
 
 "Well a let us say that it was not the act 
 of a brave and generous foe. The flag the 
 flag, Penfield, should be used for purposes of 
 inspiration rather than protection. However, 
 the enemy, having placed himself under the 
 auspices and protection of the flag which 
 should, in any event, be unassailable, I pre- 
 sume he marched away in safety and security?" 
 
 "Why, no not exactly." 
 
 "Penfield, I trust that no one had the hardi- 
 hood to assault the bearer of his country's 
 flag?" 
 
 "Grandfather, I couldn't help it. He made 
 me mad." 
 
 "Don't tell me, sir, that you so far forgot 
 yourself as to lead an attack on the colors?" 
 
 "No, I didn't. I pitched into him alone. I 
 had to lick him, flag or no flag." 
 
 "Penfield, I'm astounded ! I wouldn't have
 
 THE FLAG 97 
 
 thought it of you. And what happened, sir?" 
 
 "Why, we clinched and went down." 
 
 "But, the flag? the flag?" 
 
 "That went down too." 
 
 Colonel Butler left his place at the fireside 
 and crossed over to the table where Pen sat, in 
 order that he might look directly down on him. 
 
 "Am I to understand," he said, "that the 
 colors of my country have been wantonly 
 trailed in the mire of the street?" 
 
 Under the intensity of that look, and the 
 trembling severity of that voice, Pen wilted and 
 shrank into the depths of his cushioned chair. 
 He could only gasp : 
 
 "I'm afraid so, grandfather." 
 
 After that, for a full minute, there was si- 
 lence in the room. When the colonel again 
 spoke his voice was low and tremulous. It was 
 evident that his patriotic nature had been 
 deeply stirred. 
 
 "In what manner," he asked, "was the flag 
 rescued and restored to its proper place?" 
 
 And Pen answered truthfully: 
 
 "I don't know. I came away." 
 
 The boy was still sunk deep in his chair, his
 
 98 THE FLAG 
 
 hands were desperately clutching the arms of 
 it, and on his pale face the wounds and bruises 
 stood out startlingly distinct. 
 
 In the colonel's breast grief and indignation 
 were rapidly giving way to wrath. 
 
 "And so," he added, his voice rising with 
 every word, "you added insult to injury; and 
 having forced the nation's banner to the earth, 
 you deliberately turned your back on it and 
 came away?" 
 
 Pen did not answer. He could not. 
 
 "I say," repeated the colonel, "you deliber- 
 ately turned your back on it, and came away?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 Colonel Butler crossed back to the fire-place, 
 and then he strode into the hall. He put on his 
 hat and was struggling into his overcoat when 
 his daughter came in from the dining-room and 
 discovered him. 
 
 "Why, father!" she exclaimed, "where are 
 you going?" 
 
 "I am going," he replied, "to perform a pa- 
 triotic duty." 
 
 "Oh, don't go out again to-night," she 
 pleaded. "You've had a hard trip to-day, and
 
 THE FLAG 99 
 
 you're tired. Let Pen do your errand. Pen, 
 come here !" 
 
 The boy came at her bidding. The colonel 
 paused to consider. 
 
 "On second thought," he said, finally, "it 
 may be better that I should not go in person. 
 Penfield, you will go at once, wherever it may 
 be necessary, and inquire as to the present con- 
 dition and location of the American flag be- 
 longing to the Chestnut Hill school, and re- 
 turn and report to me." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 Pen put on his hat and coat, took his um- 
 brella, and went, out into the rain. Six blocks 
 away he stopped at Elmer Cuddeback's door 
 and rang the bell. Elmer himself came in an- 
 swer to the ring. 
 
 "Come out on the porch a minute," said Pen. 
 "I want to speak to you." 
 
 Elmer came out and closed the door behind 
 him. 
 
 "Tell me," continued Pen, "what became of 
 the flag this afternoon, after I left." 
 
 "Oh, we picked it up and carried it into the 
 school-house. Why?"
 
 100 THE FLAG 
 
 "My grandfather wants to know." 
 
 "Well, you can tell him it isn't hurt much. 
 It got tore a little bit in one corner ; and it had 
 some dirt on it. But we cleaned her up, and 
 dried her out, and put her back in her place." 
 
 "Thank you for doing it." 
 
 "Oh, that's all right. But, say, Pen, I'm 
 sorry for you." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "On account of what happened." 
 
 "Did I hurt Aleck much?" 
 
 A sudden fear of worse things had entered 
 Pen's mind. 
 
 "No, not much. He limped home by him- 
 self." 
 
 "Then, what is it?" 
 
 Pen knew, well enough, what it was ; but he 
 could not do otherwise than ask. 
 
 "Why, it's because of what you did to the 
 flag. Everybody's talking about it." 
 
 "Let 'em talk. I don't care." 
 
 But he did care, nevertheless. He went 
 back home in a fever of apprehension and anx- 
 iety. Suppose his grandfather should learn 
 the whole truth, as, sooner or later he surely
 
 THE FLAG 101 
 
 would. What then? Pen decided that it 
 would be better to tell him now. 
 
 At eight o'clock, when he returned home, he 
 found Colonel Butler still seated in the library, 
 busy with a book. He removed his cap and 
 coat in the hall, and went in. The colonel 
 looked up inquiringly. 
 
 "The flag," reported Pen, "was picked up 
 by the boys, and carried back to the school- 
 house. It was cleaned and dried, and put in 
 its proper place." 
 
 "Thank you, sir; that is all." 
 
 The colonel turned his attention again to his 
 book. 
 
 Pen stood, for a moment, irresolute, before 
 proceeding with his confession. Then he be- 
 gan: 
 
 "Grandfather, I'm very sorry for what oc- 
 curred, and especially " 
 
 "I do not care to hear any more to-night. 
 Further apologies may be deferred to a more 
 appropriate time." 
 
 Again the colonel resumed his reading. 
 
 The next day was Sunday; but, on account 
 of the unattractive appearance of his face, Pen
 
 102 THE FLAG 
 
 was excused from attending either church or 
 Sunday-school. Monday was Washington's 
 birthday, and a holiday, and there was no 
 school. So that Pen had two whole days in 
 which to recover from his wounds. But he 
 did not so easily recover from his depression. 
 Nothing more had been said by Colonel Butler 
 about the battle, and Pen, on his part, did not 
 dare again to broach the subject. Yet every 
 hour that went by was filled with apprehen- 
 sion, and punctuated with false alarms. It 
 was evident that the colonel had not yet heard 
 the full story, and it was just as evident that 
 the portion of it that he had heard had dis- 
 turbed him almost beyond precedent. He was 
 taciturn in speech, and severe and formal in 
 manner. To misuse and neglect the flag of 
 his country was, indeed, no venial offense in 
 his eyes. 
 
 Pen had not been out all day Monday, save 
 to go on one or two unimportant errands for 
 his aunt. Why he had not cared to go out was 
 not quite clear, even to himself. Ordinarily he 
 would have sought his schoolfellows, and 
 would have exhibited his wounds, these silent
 
 THE FLAG 103 
 
 and substantial witnesses of his personal 
 prowess, with "pardonable pride." Xor did 
 his schoolfellows come to seek him. That was 
 strange too. Why had they not dropped in, 
 as was their custom, to talk over the battle? 
 It was almost dark of the second day, and not 
 a single boy had been to see him or inquire for 
 him. It was more than strange; it was omin- 
 ous. 
 
 After the evening meal Colonel Butler went 
 out ; a somewhat unusual occurrence, as, in his 
 later years, he had become increasingly fond 
 of his books and papers, his wood-fire and his 
 easy chair. But, on this particular evening, 
 there was to be a meeting of a certain patriotic 
 society of which he was an enthusiastic mem- 
 ber, and he felt that he must attend it. After 
 he had gone Pen tried to study, but he could 
 not keep his thought on his work. Then he 
 took up a stirring piece of fiction and began 
 to read: but the most exciting scenes depicted 
 in it floated hazily across his mind. His Aunt 
 Millicent tried to engage him in conversation, 
 but he either could not or did not wish to talk. 
 At nine o'clock he said good-night to his aunt,
 
 104 THE FLAG 
 
 and retired to his room. At half past nine 
 Colonel Butler returned home. His daughter 
 went into the hall and greeted him and helped 
 him off with his coat, but he scarcely spoke to 
 her. When he came in under the brighter 
 lights of the library, she saw that his face was 
 haggard, his jaws set, and his eyes strangely 
 bright. 
 
 "What is it, father?" she said. "Something 
 has happened." 
 
 He did not reply to her question, but he 
 asked: 
 
 "Has Penfield retired?" 
 
 "He went to his room a good half hour ago, 
 father." 
 
 "I desire to see him." 
 
 "He may have gone to bed." 
 
 "I desire to see him under any circumstances. 
 You will please communicate my wish to 
 him." 
 
 "But, father" 
 
 "Did you hear me, daughter?" 
 
 "Father! What terrible thing has hap- 
 pened?" 
 
 "A thing so terrible that I desire confirma-
 
 THE FLAG 105 
 
 tion of it from Penfield's lips before I shall 
 fully believe it. You will please call him." 
 
 She could not disobey that command. She 
 went tremblingly up the stairs and returned in 
 a minute or two to say : 
 
 "Pen had not yet gone to bed, father. He 
 will be down as soon as he puts on his coat and 
 shoes." 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 Colonel Butler seated himself in his ac- 
 customed chair and awaited the advent of his 
 grandson. 
 
 When Pen entered the library a few minutes 
 later, his Aunt Millicent was still in the room. 
 
 "Millicent," said the colonel, "will you be 
 good enough to retire for a time? I wish to 
 speak to Penfield alone." 
 
 She rose and started toward the hall, but 
 turned back again. 
 
 "Father," she said, "if Pen is to be repri- 
 manded for anything he has done, I wish to 
 know about it." 
 
 "This is a matter," replied the colonel, 
 severely, "that can be adjusted only between 
 Penfield and me."
 
 106 THE FLAG 
 
 She saw that he was determined, and left the 
 room. 
 
 When the rustle attendant upon her ascent 
 of the staircase had died completely out, the 
 colonel turned toward Pen. He spoke quietly 
 enough, but with an emotion that was plainly 
 suppressed. 
 
 "Penfield, you may stand where you are and 
 answer certain questions that I shall ask you." 
 
 "Yes, grandfather." 
 
 "While in attendance this evening, upon a 
 meeting of gentlemen gathered for a patriotic 
 purpose, I was told that you, Penfield Butler, 
 had, on Saturday last, on the schoolhouse 
 grounds, trodden deliberately on the American 
 flag lying in the slush of the street. Is the 
 story true, sir?" 
 
 "Well, grandfather, it was this way. I 
 was " 
 
 "I desire, sir, a categorical reply. Did you, 
 or did you not, stand upon the American 
 flag?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; I believe I did." 
 
 "I am also credibly informed that you spoke 
 disdainfully of this particular American flag
 
 THE FLAG 107 
 
 as a mere piece of bunting? Did you use those 
 words?" 
 
 "I don't know what I said, grandfather." 
 
 "Is it possible that you could have spoken 
 thus disrespectfully of your country's flag?" 
 
 "It is possible ; yes, sir." 
 
 "I am further informed that, on the same oc- 
 casion, in language of which I have no credible 
 report, you expressed your contempt for your 
 country herself. Is my information cor- 
 rect?" 
 
 "I may have done so." 
 
 Pen felt himself growing weak and unsteady 
 under this fire of questions, and he moved for- 
 ward a little and grasped the back of a chair 
 for support. The colonel, paying no heed to 
 the boy's pitiable condition, went on with his 
 examination. 
 
 "Now, then, sir," he said, "if you have any 
 explanation to offer you may give it." 
 
 "Well, grandfather, I was very angry at the 
 use they'd put the flag to, and I well, I didn't 
 just know what I was doing." 
 
 Pen's voice had died away almost to a whis- 
 per.
 
 108 THE FLAG 
 
 "And that," said the colonel, "is your only 
 excuse?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. Except that I didn't mean it; 
 not any of it." 
 
 "Of course you didn't mean it. If you had 
 meant it, it would have been a crime instead of 
 a gross offense. But the fact remains that, in 
 the heat of passion, without forethought, with- 
 out regard to your patriotic ancestry, you have 
 wantonly defamed your country and heaped 
 insults on her flag." 
 
 Pen tried to speak, but he could not. He 
 clung to the back of his chair and stood mute 
 while the colonel went on : 
 
 "My paternal grandfather, sir, fought val- 
 iantly in the army of General Putnam in the 
 Revolutionary war, and my maternal grand- 
 father was an aide to General Washington. 
 My father helped to storm the heights of Cha- 
 pultepec in 1847 under that invincible com- 
 mander, General Worth. I, myself, shared 
 the vicissitudes of the Army of the Potomac, 
 through three years of the civil war. And now 
 it has come to this, that my grandson has trod- 
 den under his feet the flag for which his gal-
 
 THE FLAG 109 
 
 lant ancestors fought, and has defamed the 
 country for which they shed their blood." 
 
 The colonel's voice had risen as he went on, 
 until now, vibrant with emotion, it echoed 
 through the room. He rose from his chair and 
 began pacing up and down the library floor. 
 
 Still Pen stood mute. Even if he had had 
 the voice to speak there was nothing more that 
 he could say. It seemed to him that it was 
 hours that his grandfather paced the floor, and 
 it was a relief to have him stop and speak 
 again, no matter what he should say. 
 
 "I have decided," said the colonel, "that you 
 shall apologize for your offense. It is the 
 least reparation that can be made. Your 
 apology will be in public, at your school, and 
 will be directed to your teacher, to your coun- 
 try, to your flag, and to Master Sands who was 
 bearing the colors at the time of the as- 
 sault." 
 
 Before his teacher, his country and his flag, 
 Pen would have been willing to humble himself 
 into the dust. But, to apologize to Aleck 
 Sands! 
 
 Colonel Butler did not wait for a reply, but
 
 110 THE FLAG 
 
 sat down at his desk and arranged his materials 
 for writing. 
 
 "I shall communicate my purpose to Miss 
 Grey," he said, "in a letter which you will take 
 to her to-morrow." 
 
 Then, for the first time in many minutes, 
 Pen found his voice. 
 
 "Grandfather, I shall be glad to apologize to 
 Miss Grey, and to my country, and to the flag, 
 but is it necessary for me to apologize to Aleck 
 Sands?" 
 
 Colonel Butler swung around in his swivel- 
 chair, and faced the boy almost savagely: 
 
 "Do you presume, sir," he exclaimed, "to 
 dictate the conditions of your pardon? I have 
 fixed the terms. They shall be complied with 
 to the letter to the letter, sir. And if you 
 refuse to abide by them you will be required to 
 withdraw to the home of your maternal grand- 
 father, \vhere, I have no doubt, your conduct 
 will be disregarded if not approved. But I 
 will not harbor, under the roof of Bannerhall, a 
 person who has been guilty of such disloyalty 
 as yours, and who declines to apologize for his 
 offense."
 
 THE FLAG 111 
 
 Having delivered himself of this ultimatum, 
 the colonel again turned to his writing-desk 
 and proceeded to prepare his letter to Miss 
 Grey. Apparently it did not occur to him that 
 his demand, thus definitely made, might still 
 be refused. 
 
 After what seemed to Pen to be an inter- 
 minable time, his grandfather ceased writing, 
 laid aside his pen, and turned toward him hold- 
 ing a written sheet from which he read : 
 
 "BANNERHALL, CHESTNUT HILL, PA. 
 
 February 22. 
 "My dear Miss Grey: 
 
 "It is with the deepest regret that I have to 
 advise you that my grandson, Penfield Butler, 
 on Saturday last, by his own confession, dis- 
 honored the colors belonging to your school, 
 and made certain derogatory remarks concern- 
 ing his country and his flag, for which offenses 
 he desires now to make reparation. Will you 
 therefore kindly permit him, at the first pos- 
 sible opportunity, to apologize for his repre- 
 hensible conduct, publicly, to his teacher, to his 
 country and to his flag, and especially to Mas- 
 ter Alexander Sands, the bearer of the flag, 
 who, though not without fault in the matter,
 
 112 THE FLAG 
 
 was, nevertheless, at the time, under the pro- 
 tection of the colors. 
 
 "Master Butler will report to me the ful- 
 fillment of this request. With personal re- 
 gards and apologies, I remain, 
 
 "Your obed* servant, 
 
 "RICHAED BUTLER." 
 
 He folded the letter, placed it in an envel- 
 ope, and handed it to Pen. 
 
 "You will deliver this to Miss Grey," he said, 
 "on your arrival at school to-morrow morning. 
 That is all to-night. You may retire." 
 
 Pen took the letter, thanked his grandfa- 
 ther, bade him good-night, turned and went out 
 into the hall, and upstairs to his room.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 IT is little wonder that Pen passed a sleep- 
 less night, after the interview with his grand- 
 father. He realized now, perhaps better than 
 any one else, the seriousness of his offense. 
 Knowing, so well as he did, Colonel Butler's 
 reverence for all things patriotic, he did not 
 wonder that he should be so deeply indignant. 
 Pen, himself, felt that the least he could do, 
 under the circumstances, was to publicly apolo- 
 gize for his conduct, bitter and humiliating as 
 it would be to make such an apology. And 
 he was willing to apologize to any one, to any- 
 thing save Alexander Sands. To this point 
 of reparation he could not bring himself. This 
 was the problem with which he struggled 
 through the night hours. It was not a ques- 
 tion, he told himself, over and over again, of 
 whether he should leave Bannerhall, with its 
 ease and luxury and choice traditions, and go 
 to live on the little farm at Cobb's Corners.
 
 114 THE FLAG 
 
 It was a question of whether he was willing to 
 yield his self-respect and manhood to the point 
 of humbling himself before Alexander Sands. 
 It was not until he heard the clock in the hall 
 strike three that he reached his decision. 
 
 And his decision was, to comply, in full, with 
 his grandfather's demand and remain at Ban- 
 nerhall. 
 
 At the breakfast table the next morning 
 Colonel Butler was still reticent and taciturn. 
 He had passed an uncomfortable night and 
 was in no mood for conversation. He did not 
 refer, in any way, to the matters which had 
 been discussed the evening before; and when 
 Pen, with the letter in his pocket, started for 
 school, the situation was entirely unchanged. 
 But, somehow, in the freshness of the morn- 
 ing, under the cheerful rays of an unclouded 
 sun, the task that had been set for Pen did not 
 seem to him to be quite so difficult and repul- 
 sive as it had seemed the night before. He 
 even deigned to whistle as he went down the 
 path to the street. But he noticed, as he 
 passed along through the business section of 
 the town, that people whom he knew looked at
 
 THE FLAG 115 
 
 him curiously, and that those who spoke to 
 him did so with scant courtesy. Across the 
 street, from the corner of his eye, he saw one 
 man call another man's attention to him, and 
 both men turned their heads, for a moment, to 
 watch him. A little farther along he caught 
 sight of Elmer Cuddeback, his bosom compan- 
 ion, a half block ahead, and he called out to 
 him: 
 
 "Hey! Elmer, wait a minute!" 
 
 But Elmer did not wait. He looked back to 
 see who had called to him, and then he replied : 
 
 "I can't! I got to catch up with Jimmie 
 Morrissey." 
 
 And he started off on a run. This was the 
 cut direct. There was no mistaking it. It 
 sent a new fear to Pen's heart. It served to 
 explain why his schoolfellows had not been to 
 see him and sympathize with him. He had not 
 before fully considered what effect his conduct 
 of the previous Saturday might have upon 
 those who had been his best friends. But 
 Elmer's action was suspiciously expressive. 
 It was more than that, it was ominous and for- 
 bidding. Pen trudged on alone. A group of
 
 116 THE FLAG 
 
 a half dozen boys who had heretofore recog- 
 nized him as their leader, turned a corner into 
 Main street, and went down on the other side. 
 He did not call to them, nor did they pay any 
 attention to him, except that, once or twice, 
 some of them looked back, apparently to see 
 whether he was approaching them. But his 
 ears burned. He knew they were discussing 
 his fault. 
 
 In the school-house yard another group of 
 boys was gathered. They were so earnestly 
 engaged in conversation that they did not no- 
 tice Pen's approach until he was nearly on 
 them. Then one of them gave a low whistle 
 and instantly the talking ceased. 
 
 "Hello, fellows!" Pen made his voice and 
 manner as natural and easy as determined ef- 
 fort could make them. 
 
 Two or three of them answered "Hello!" in 
 an indifferent way; otherwise none of them 
 spoke to him. 
 
 If the battle of Chestnut Hill had ended 
 when the enemy had been driven into the school- 
 house, and if the conquering troops had then 
 gone home proclaiming their victory, these
 
 THE FLAG 117 
 
 same boys who were now treating him with 
 such cold indifference, would have been fling- 
 ing their arms about his shoulders this morn- 
 ing, and proclaiming him to the world as a 
 hero ; and Pen knew it. With flushed face and 
 sinking heart he turned away and entered the 
 school-house. 
 
 Aleck Sands was already there, sitting back 
 in a corner, surrounded by sympathizing 
 friends. He still bore marks of the fray. 
 
 As Pen came in some one in the group said : 
 
 "Here he comes now." 
 
 Another one added: 
 
 "Hasn't he got the nerve though, to show 
 himself after what he done to the flag?" 
 
 And a third one, not to be outdone, de- 
 clared : 
 
 "Aw! He's a reg'lar Benedic' Arnold." 
 
 Pen heard it all, as thej r had intended he 
 should. He stopped in the aisle and faced 
 them. The grief and despair that he had felt 
 outside when his own comrades had ignored 
 him, gave place now to a sudden blazing up 
 of the old wrath. He did not raise his voice; 
 but every word he spoke was alive with anger.
 
 118 THE FLAG 
 
 "You cowardly puppies! You talk about 
 the flag! The only flag you're fit to live un- 
 der is the black flag, with skull and cross-bones 
 on it." 
 
 Then he turned on his heel and marched up 
 the aisle to where Miss Grey was seated at her 
 desk. He took Colonel Butler's letter from 
 his pocket and handed it to her. 
 
 "My grandfather," he said, "wishes me to 
 give you this letter." 
 
 She looked up at him with a grieved and 
 troubled face. 
 
 "Oh, Pen!" she exclaimed, despairingly, 
 "what have you done, and why did you do it?" 
 
 She was fond of the boy. He was her 
 brightest and most gentlemanly pupil. On 
 only one or two other occasions, during the 
 years of her authority, had she found it neces- 
 sary to reprimand him for giving way to sud- 
 den fits of passion leading to infraction of her 
 rules. So that it was with deep and real sor- 
 row that she deplored his recent conduct and 
 his present position. 
 
 "I don't know," he answered her. "I guess 
 my temper got the best of me, that's all."
 
 THE FLAG 119 
 
 "But, Pen, I don't know what to do. I'm 
 simply at my wit's end." 
 
 "I'm sorry to have given you so much 
 trouble, Miss Grey," he replied. "But when it 
 comes to punishing me, I think the letter will 
 help you out." 
 
 The bell had stopped ringing. The boys 
 and girls had crowded in and were already 
 seated, awaiting the opening of school. Pen 
 turned away from his teacher and started down 
 the aisle toward his seat, facing his fellow- 
 pupils as he went. 
 
 And then something happened; something 
 unusual and terrible; something so terrible 
 that Pen's face went pale, he paused a mo- 
 ment and looked ahead of him as though in 
 doubt whether his ears had deceived him, and 
 then he dropped weakly into his seat. They 
 had hissed him. From a far corner of the room 
 came the first sibilant sound, followed at once 
 by a chorus of hisses that struck straight to 
 the boy's heart, and echoed through his mind 
 for years. 
 
 Miss Grey sprang to her feet. For the first 
 time in all the years she had taught them her
 
 120 THE FLAG 
 
 pupils saw her fired with anger. She brought 
 her gavel down on the table with a bang. 
 
 "This is disgraceful!" she exclaimed. "We 
 are in a school-room, not in a goose-pond, nor in 
 a den of snakes. I want every one who has 
 hissed to remain here when school closes at 
 noon." 
 
 But it was not until after the opening ex- 
 ercises had been concluded, and the younger 
 children had gone out to the room of the as- 
 sistant teacher, that she found an opportunity 
 to read Colonel Butler's letter. It did help 
 her out, as Pen had said it would. She re- 
 solved to act immediately upon the request con- 
 tained in it, before calling any classes. She 
 rose in her place. 
 
 "I have an unpleasant duty to perform," 
 she said. "I hoped, when I gave you boys per- 
 mission to have the snow-ball fight, that it 
 would result in permanent peace among you. 
 It has, apparently, served only to embitter you 
 more deeply against each other. The school 
 colors have been removed from the building 
 without authority. With those guilty of this 
 offense I shall deal hereafter. The flag has
 
 THE FLAG 121 
 
 been abused and thrown into the slush of the 
 street. As to this I shall not now decide whose 
 was the greater fault. But one, at least, of 
 those concerned in such treatment of our colors 
 has realized the seriousness of his misconduct, 
 and desires to apologize for it, to his teacher, 
 to his country, to his flag, and to the one who 
 was carrying it at the time of the assault. 
 Penfield, you may come to the platform." 
 
 But Pen did not stir. He sat there as 
 though made of stone, that awful hiss still 
 sounding in his ears. Miss Grey's voice came 
 to him as from some great distance. He did 
 not seem to realize what she was saying to him. 
 She saw his white face, and the vacant look 
 in his eyes, and she pitied him ; but she had her 
 duty to perform. 
 
 "Penfield," she repeated, "will you please 
 come to the platform? We are waiting for 
 your apology." 
 
 This time Pen heard her and roused himself. 
 He rose slowly to his feet ; but he did not move 
 from his place. He spoke from where he 
 stood. 
 
 "Miss Grey," he said, "after what has oc-
 
 122 THE FLAG 
 
 curred here this morning, I have decided not 
 to apologize." 
 
 He bent over, picked up his books from the 
 desk in front of him, stepped out into the aisle, 
 walked deliberately down between rows of 
 astounded schoolmates to the vestibule, put on 
 his cap and coat, and went out into the street. 
 
 No one called him back. He would not 
 have gone if any one had. He turned his face 
 toward home. Whether or not people looked 
 at him curiously as he passed, he neither knew 
 nor cared. He had been hissed in public by 
 his schoolfellows. No condemnation could be 
 more severe than this, or lead to deeper humil- 
 iation. Strong men have quailed under this 
 repulsive and terrible form of public disap- 
 proval. It is little wonder that a mere school- 
 boy should be crushed by it. That he could 
 never go back to Miss Grey's school was per- 
 fectly plain to him. That, having refused to 
 apologize, he could not remain at Bannerhall, 
 was equally certain. One path only remained 
 open to him, and that was the snow-filled, 
 country road leading to his grandfather 
 Walker's humble abode at Cobb's Corners.
 
 THE FLAG 123 
 
 When he reached home he found that his 
 grandfather and his Aunt Millicent had gone 
 down the river road for a sleigh-ride. He did 
 not wait to consider anything, for there was 
 really nothing to consider. He went up to his 
 room, packed his suit-case with some clothing 
 and a few personal belongings, and came down 
 stairs and left his baggage in the hall while he 
 went into the library and wrote a letter to his 
 grandfather. When it was finished he read it 
 over to himself, aloud : 
 
 "Dear Grandfather: 
 
 "After what happened at school this morn- 
 ing it was impossible for me to apologize, and 
 keep any of my self-respect. So I am going 
 to Cobb's Corners to live with my mother and 
 Grandpa Walker, as you wished. Good-by! 
 "Your affectionate grandson, 
 
 "PENFIELD BUTLER." 
 "P. S. Please give my love to Aunt Millicent." 
 
 He enclosed the letter in an envelope, ad- 
 dressed it, and left it lying on the library table. 
 Then he put on his cap and coat, took his suit- 
 case, and went out into the sunlight of the 
 winter morning. At the entrance gate he
 
 124 THE FLAG 
 
 turned and looked back at Bannerhall, the 
 wide lawn, the noble trees, the big brick house 
 with its hospitable porch, the window of his 
 own room, facing the street. Something rose 
 in his throat and choked him a little, but his 
 eyes were dry as he turned away. He knew 
 the road to Cobb's Corners very well indeed. 
 He had made frequent visits to his mother 
 there in the summer time. For, notwithstand- 
 ing his forbidding attitude, Colonel Butler 
 recognized the instinct that drew mother and 
 child together, and never sought to deny it 
 proper expression. But it was hard traveling 
 on the road to-day, especially with a burden to 
 carry, and Pen was glad when Henry Cobb, 
 a neighbor of Grandpa Walker, came along 
 with horse and sleigh and invited him to ride. 
 
 It was just after noon when he reached his 
 grandfather's house, and the members of the 
 family were at dinner. They looked up in as- 
 tonishment when he entered. 
 
 "Why, Pen!" exclaimed his mother, "what- 
 ever brings you here to-day?" 
 
 "I've come to stay with you awhile, mother," 
 he replied, "if grandpa '11 take me in."
 
 THE FLAG 125 
 
 "Of course grandpa '11 take you in." 
 
 And then, as mothers will, especially sur- 
 prised mothers, she fell on his neck and kissed 
 him, and smiled through her tears. 
 
 "Well, I dunno," said Grandpa Walker, 
 facetiously, balancing a good-sized morsel of 
 food carefully on the blade of his knife, "that 
 depen's on wuther ye're willin' to take pot-luck 
 with us or not." 
 
 "I'm willing to take anything with you," re- 
 plied Pen, "if you'll give me a home till I can 
 shift for myself." 
 
 He went around the table and kissed his 
 grandmother who had, for years, been partially 
 paralyzed, shook hands with his Uncle Joseph 
 and Aunt Miranda, and greeted their little 
 brood of offspring cheerfully. 
 
 "What's happened to ye, anyhow?" asked 
 Grandpa Walker when the greetings were 
 over and a place had been prepared for Pen at 
 the table. "Dick Butler kick ye out ; did he ?" 
 
 "Not exactly," was the reply. "But he told 
 me I couldn't stay there unless I did a certain 
 thing, and I didn't do it I couldn't do it and 
 so I came away."
 
 126 THE FLAG 
 
 "Jes' so. That's Dick Butler to a T. Ef 
 ye don't give him his own way in everything 
 he aint no furder use for ye. Well, eat your 
 dinner now, an' tell us about it later." 
 
 So Pen ate his dinner. He was hungry, 
 and, for the time being at least, the echo of that 
 awful hiss was not ringing in his ears. But 
 they would not let him finish eating until he 
 had told them, in detail, the cause of his com- 
 ing. He made the story as brief as possible, 
 neither seeking to excuse himself nor to lay the 
 blame on others. 
 
 "Well," was Grandpa Walker's comment 
 when the recital was finished, "I dunno but 
 what ye done all right enough. They ain't one 
 o' them blame little scalawags down to Chest- 
 nut Valley, but what deserves a good thrashin' 
 on gen'al principles. They yell names at me 
 every time I go down to mill, an' then cut an' 
 run like blazes 'fore I can git at 'em with a 
 hoss-whip. I'm glad somebody's bed the grace 
 to wallop 'em. And es for Dick Butler; he's 
 too allfired pompous an' domineerin' for any- 
 body to live with, anyhow. Lets on he was a 
 great soldier! Humph! I've known him "
 
 THE FLAG 127 
 
 "Hush, father!" 
 
 It was Pen's mother who spoke. The old 
 man turned toward her abruptly. 
 
 "You ain't got no call," he said, "to stick up 
 for Dick Butler." 
 
 "I know," she replied. "But he's Pen's 
 grandfather* and it isn't nice to abuse him in 
 Pen's presence." 
 
 "Well, mebbe that's so." 
 
 He rose from the table, got his pipe from the 
 mantel, filled it and lighted it, and went over 
 and deposited his somewhat ponderous body in 
 a cushioned chair by the window. Pen's 
 mother and aunt pushed the wheel-chair in 
 which Grandma Walker sat, to one side of the 
 room, and began to clear the dishes from the 
 table. 
 
 "Well," said the old man, between his puffs 
 of smoke, "now ye're here, what ye goin' to do 
 here?" 
 
 "Anything you have for me to do, grandpa," 
 replied Pen. 
 
 "I don't see's I can send ye to school." 
 
 "I'd rather not go to school. I'd rather 
 work do chores, anything."
 
 128 THE FLAG 
 
 "All right! I guess we can keep ye from 
 rustin'. They's plenty to do, and I ain't so 
 soople as I was at sixty." 
 
 He looked the embodiment of physical com- 
 fort, with his round, fresh face, and the fringe 
 of gray whiskers under his chin, as he sat at 
 ease in his big chair by the window, puffing 
 lazily at his pipe. 
 
 So Pen stayed. There was no doubt but 
 that he earned his keep. He did chores. He 
 chopped wood. He brought water from the 
 well. He fed the horse and the cows, the 
 chickens and the pigs. He drove Old Charlie 
 in the performance of any work requiring the 
 assistance of a horse. He was busy from 
 morning to night. He slept in a cold room, he 
 was up before daylight, he was out in all kinds 
 of weather, he did all kinds of tasks. There 
 were sore muscles and aching bones, indeed, 
 before he had hardened himself to his work ; for 
 physical labor was new to him; but he never 
 shirked nor complained. Moreover he was 
 treated kindly, he had plenty to eat, and he 
 shared in whatever diversions the family could 
 afford. Then, too, he had his mother to com-
 
 THE FLAG 129 
 
 fort him, to cheer him, to sympathize with him, 
 and to be, ever more and more, his confidante 
 and companion. 
 
 And Grandpa Walker, relieved of nearly 
 all laborious activities about the place, much to 
 his enjoyment, spent his time reading, smoking 
 and dozing through the days of late winter and 
 early spring, and discussing politics and big 
 business in the country store at the cross-roads 
 of an evening. 
 
 One afternoon, about the middle of March, 
 as the old man was rousing himself from his 
 after-dinner nap, two men drove up to the 
 Walker homestead, tied their horse at the gate, 
 came up the path to the house and knocked at 
 the door. He, himself, answered the knock. 
 
 "Yes," he said in response to their inquiry, 
 "I'm Enos Walker, and I'm to hum." 
 
 The spokesman of the two was a tall young 
 man with a very black moustache and a merry 
 twinkle in his eyes. 
 
 "We're glad to see you, Mr. Walker," he de- 
 clared. "My name is Hubert Morrissey, and 
 the gentleman who is with me is Mr. Frank 
 Campbell. We're on a hunting expedition."
 
 130 THE FLAG 
 
 "Perty late in the season fer huntin', ain't 
 it? The law's on most everything now." 
 
 "I don't think the law's on what we're hunt- 
 ing for." 
 
 "What ye huntin' fer?" 
 
 "Spruce trees." 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 "Spruce trees. Or, rather, one spruce tree." 
 
 "Well, ye wouldn't have to shoot so allfired 
 straight to hit one in these parts. I've got a 
 swamp full of 'em down here." 
 
 "So we understand. But we want a choice 
 one." 
 
 "I've got some that can't be beat this side the 
 White mountains." 
 
 "We've learned that also. We took the lib- 
 erty of looking over your spruce grove on our 
 way up here." 
 
 "Well; they didn't nobody hender ye, did 
 they?" 
 
 "No. We found what we were looking for, 
 all right." 
 
 "Jes' so. Come in an' set down." 
 
 Grandpa Walker moved ponderously from 
 the doorway in which he had been standing, to
 
 THE FLAG 131 
 
 his comfortable chair by the window, seated 
 himself, picked up his pipe from the window- 
 sill, filled it, lighted it and began puffing. The 
 two men entered the room, closing the door 
 behind them, and found chairs for themselves 
 and occupied them. Then the conversation 
 was renewed. 
 
 "We'll be perfectly frank with you, Mr. 
 Walker," said Hubert Morrissey, "and tell you 
 what we want and why we want it. It is pro- 
 posed to erect a first-class liberty-pole in the 
 school-yard at Chestnut Hill. A handsome 
 American flag has already been given to the 
 school. The next thing in order of course is 
 the pole. Mr. Campbell and I have been au- 
 thorized to find a spruce tree that will fill the 
 bill, buy it, and have it cut and trimmed and 
 hauled to town while the snow is still on. It 
 has to be dressed, seasoned, painted, and ready 
 to plant by the time the frost goes out, and 
 there isn't a day to lose. There, Mr. Walker, 
 that is our errand." 
 
 "Jes' so. Found the tree did ye? down in 
 my swamp?" 
 
 "We certainly did."
 
 132 THE FLAG 
 
 "Nice tree, is it? What ye was lookin' 
 fer?" 
 
 "It's a beauty! Just what we want. I 
 know it isn't just the thing to crack up the 
 goods you're trying to buy from the other fel- 
 low, but we want to be perfectly fair with you, 
 Mr. Walker. We want to pay you what the 
 tree is worth. Suppose we go down the hill 
 and look it over, and then you can doubtless 
 give us your price on it." 
 
 " 'Tain't ne'sary to go down an' look it over. 
 I know the tree ye've got your eye on." 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "Oh, sort o' guessed it. It's the one by the 
 corner o' the rail fence on the fu'ther side o' the 
 brook as ye go in from the road." 
 
 "That's a good guess. It's the very tree. 
 Now then, what about the price?" 
 
 The old man pulled on his pipe for a mo- 
 ment with rather more than his usual vigor, 
 then removed it from his mouth and faced his 
 visitors. 
 
 "Want to buy that tree, do ye?" he asked. 
 
 "Sure we want to buy it." 
 
 "Cash down, jedgment note, or what?"
 
 THE FLAG 133 
 
 The man with the black moustache smiled 
 broadly, showing an even row of white teeth. 
 
 "Cash down," he replied. "Gold, silver or 
 greenbacks as you prefer. Every dollar in 
 your hands before an axe touches the tree." 
 
 Grandpa Walker inserted the stem of his 
 pipe between his teeth, and again lapsed into a 
 contemplative mood. After a moment he 
 broke the silence by asking: 
 
 "Got the flag, hev ye?" 
 
 "Yes; we have the flag." 
 
 "Might I be so bold as to ask what the flag 
 cost?" 
 
 "It was given to the school." 
 
 "Air ye tellin' who give it?" 
 
 "Why, there's no secret about it. Colonel 
 Butler gave the flag." 
 
 "Dick Butler?" 
 
 "Colonel Richard Butler ; yes." 
 
 It was gradually filtering into the mind of 
 Mr. Hubert Morrissey that for some reason the 
 owner of the tree was harboring a resentment 
 against the giver of the flag. Then he sud- 
 denly recalled the fact that Mr. Walker was 
 the father of Colonel Butler's daughter-in-law,
 
 134 THE FLAG 
 
 and that the relation between the two men 
 had been somewhat strained. But Grandpa 
 Walker was now ready with another question : 
 
 "Is Colonel Richard Butler a givin' the pole 
 too?" 
 
 "Why, yes, I believe he furnishes the pole 
 also." 
 
 "It was him 't sent ye out here a lookin' fer 
 one; was it?" 
 
 "He asked us to hunt one up for him, cer- 
 tainly." 
 
 "Told ye, when ye found one 't was right, to 
 git it? Not to haggle about the price, but git 
 it an' pay fer it? Told ye that, didn't he?" 
 
 "Well, if it wasn't just that it was first 
 cousin to it." 
 
 "Jes* so. Well, you go back to Chestnut 
 Hill, an' you go to Colonel Richard Butler, an' 
 you tell Colonel Richard Butler that ef he 
 wants to buy a spruce tree from Enos Walker 
 of Cobb's Corners, to come here an' bargain fer 
 it himself. He'll find me to hum most any 
 day. How's the sleighin' ?" 
 
 "Pretty fair. But, Mr. Walker" 
 
 "No buts, ner ifs, ner ands. Ye heard what
 
 THE FLAG 135 
 
 I said, an' I stan' by it till the crack o' jedg- 
 ment." 
 
 The old man rose, knocked the ashes out of 
 his pipe and put the pipe in his vest pocket, 
 stretched himself, and reached for his cap. It 
 was plain that he considered the interview at 
 an end. The persuasive Mr. Morrissey tried 
 to get a wedge in somewhere to reopen it, but 
 he tried in vain. Enos Walker was adamant. 
 So, disappointed and discomfited, the emis- 
 saries of Colonel Richard Butler bade "good- 
 day," to the oracle of Cobb's Corners, and 
 drove back to Chestnut Hill.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 ON the morning after the interview with 
 Enos Walker, Mr. Morrissey and Mr. Camp- 
 bell went up to Bannerhall to report to Colonel 
 Richard Butler. But they went hesitatingly. 
 Indeed, it had been a question in their minds 
 whether it would not be wiser to say nothing 
 to Colonel Butler concerning their experience 
 at Cobb's Corners, and simply to go elsewhere 
 and hunt up another tree. But Mr. Walker's 
 tree was such a model of perfection for their 
 purpose, the possibility of finding another one 
 that would even approach it in suitability was 
 so extremely remote, that the two gentlemen, 
 after serious discussion of the question, being 
 well aware of Colonel Butler's idiosyncrasies, 
 decided, finally, to put the whole case up to 
 him, and to accept cheerfully whatever he might 
 have in store for them. There was one chance 
 in a hundred that the colonel, instead of scorn- 
 fully resenting Enos Walker's proposal, might
 
 THE FLAG 137 
 
 take the matter philosophically and accept the 
 old man's terms. They thought it better to 
 take that chance. 
 
 They found Colonel Butler in his office ad- 
 joining the library. He was in an ordinarily 
 cheerful mood, although the deep shadows un- 
 der his eyes, noticeable only within the last few 
 weeks, indicated that he had been suffering 
 either in mind or in body, perhaps in both. 
 
 "Well, gentlemen," he said when his visitors 
 were seated; "what about the arboreal errand? 
 Did you find a tree?" 
 
 Mr. Hubert Morrissey, as he had been the 
 day before, was again, to-day, the spokesman 
 for his committee of two. 
 
 "We found a tree," he replied. 
 
 "One in all respects satisfactory I hope?" 
 the colonel inquired. 
 
 "Eminently satisfactory," was the answer. 
 "In fact a perfect beauty. I doubt if it has its 
 equal in this section of the state. Wouldn't 
 you say so, Mr. Campbell?" 
 
 "I fully agree with you," reph'ed Mr. Camp- 
 bell. "It's without a peer." 
 
 "How will it measure?" inquired the colonel.
 
 138 THE FLAG 
 
 "I should say," responded Mr. Morrissey, 
 "that it will dress up to about twelve inches at 
 the base, and will stand about fifty feet to the 
 ball on the summit. Shouldn't you say so, 
 Mr. Campbell?" 
 
 "Just about," was the reply. "Not an inch 
 under those figures, in my judgment." 
 
 "Good!" exclaimed the colonel. "Permit 
 me to congratulate you, gentlemen. You have 
 performed a distinct public service. You de- 
 serve the thanks of the entire community." 
 
 "But, colonel," said Mr. Morrissey with 
 some hesitation, "we were not quite able to 
 close a satisfactory bargain with the owner of 
 the tree." 
 
 "That is unfortunate, gentlemen. You 
 should not have permitted a few dollars to 
 stand in the way of securing your prize. I 
 thought I gave you a perfectly free hand to do 
 as you thought best." 
 
 "So you did, colonel. But the hitch was 
 not so much over a matter of price as over a 
 matter of principle." 
 
 "Over a matter of principle? I don't un- 
 derstand you, sir. How could any citizen of
 
 THE FLAG 139 
 
 this free country object, as a matter of prin- 
 ciple, to having his tree converted into a staff 
 from the summit of which the emblem of liberty 
 might be flung to the breeze? Especially 
 when he was free to name his own price for 
 the tree." 
 
 "But he wouldn't name any price." 
 
 "Did he refuse to sell?" 
 
 "Not exactly; but he wouldn't bargain ex- 
 cept on a condition that we were unable to 
 meet." 
 
 "What condition? Who is the man? 
 Where does he live?" 
 
 Colonel Butler was growing plainly impa- 
 tient over the obstructive tactics in which the 
 owner of the tree had indulged. 
 
 "He lives," replied Mr. Morrissey, "at 
 Cobb's Corners. His name is Enos Walker. 
 His condition is that you go to him in person 
 to bargain for the tree. There's the situation, 
 colonel. Now you have it all." 
 
 The veteran of the Civil War straightened 
 up in his chair, threw back his shoulders, and 
 gazed at his visitors in silence. Surprise, an- 
 ger, contempt; these were the emotions the
 
 140 THE FLAG 
 
 shadows of which successively overspread his 
 face. 
 
 "Gentlemen," he said, at last, "are you aware 
 what a preposterous proposition you have 
 brought to me?" 
 
 "It is not our proposition, colonel." 
 
 "I know it is not, sir. You are simply the 
 bearers of it. Permit me to ask you, however, 
 if it is your recommendation that I yield to 
 the demand of this crude highwayman of 
 Cobb's Corners?" 
 
 "Why, Mr. Campbell and I have talked the 
 matter over, and, in view of the fact that this 
 appears to be the only available tree within 
 easy reach, and is so splendidly adapted to our 
 purposes, we have thought that possibly you 
 might suggest some method whereby " 
 
 "Gentlemen " Colonel Butler had risen 
 from his chair and was pacing angrily up and 
 down the room. His face was flushed and his 
 fingers were working nervously. "Gentle- 
 men " he interrupted "my fortune is at 
 your disposal. Purchase the tree where you 
 will; on the hills of Maine, in the swamps 
 of Georgia, on the plains of California. But
 
 THE FLAG 141 
 
 do not suggest to me, gentlemen; do not dare 
 to suggest to me that I yield to the outrageous 
 demand of this person who has made you the 
 bearers of his impertinent ultimatum." 
 
 Mr. Morrissey rose in his turn, followed by 
 Mr. Campbell. 
 
 "Very well, colonel," said the spokesman. 
 "We will try to procure the tree elsewhere. 
 We thought it no more than right to report to 
 you first what we had done. That is the situa- 
 tion is it not, Mr. Campbell?" 
 
 "That is the situation, exactly," assented 
 Mr. Campbell. 
 
 The colonel had reached the window in his 
 round of the room, and had stopped there. 
 
 "That was quite the thing to do, gentlemen," 
 he replied. "A quite the thing to do." 
 
 He stood gazing intently out through the 
 window at the banks of snow settling and wast- 
 ing under the bright March sunshine. Not 
 that his eyes had been attracted to anything in 
 particular on his lawn, but that a thought had 
 entered his mind which demanded, for the mo- 
 ment, his undivided attention. 
 
 His two visitors stood waiting, somewhat
 
 142 THE FLAG 
 
 awkwardly, for him to turn again toward them, 
 but he did not do so. At last Mr. Morrissey 
 plucked up courage to break in on his host's 
 reverie. 
 
 "I I think we understand you now, col- 
 onel," he said. "We'll go elsewhere and do 
 the best we can." 
 
 Colonel Butler faced away from the window 
 and came back into the room. 
 
 "Pardon me, gentlemen," he said. "My 
 mind was temporarily occupied by a thought 
 that has come to me in this matter. Upon 
 further consideration it occurs to me that it 
 may be expedient for me to yield on this occa- 
 sion to Mr. Walker's request, and visit him in 
 person. In the meantime you may suspend 
 operations. I will advise you later of the out- 
 come of my plans." 
 
 "You are undoubtedly wise, colonel," re- 
 plied Mr. Morrissey, "to make a further effort 
 to secure this particular tree. Wouldn't you 
 say so, Mr. Campbell?" 
 
 "Undoubtedly!" replied Mr. Campbell with 
 some warmth. 
 
 So the matter was left in that way. Colonel
 
 THE FLAG 143 
 
 Butler was to inform his agents what, if any- 
 thing, he had been able to accomplish by means 
 of a personal interview with Mr. Walker, al- 
 ways assuming that he should finally and defi- 
 nitely decide to seek such an interview. And 
 Mr. Hubert Morrissey r and Mr. Frank Camp- 
 bell bowed themselves out of Colonel Butler's 
 presence. 
 
 While the cause of this sudden change of 
 attitude on Colonel Butler's part remained a 
 mystery to his two visitors, it was, in reality, 
 not far to seek. For, as he looked out at his 
 window that March morning, he saw, not the 
 bare trees on the lawn, not the brown hedge or 
 the beaten roadway; he saw, out somewhere 
 among the snow-covered fields, laboring as a 
 farmer's boy, enduring the privations of a 
 humble home, and the limitations of a narrow 
 environment, the lad who for a dozen years 
 had been his solace and his pride, the light and 
 the life of Bannerhall. How sadly he missed 
 the boy, no one, save perhaps his faithful 
 daughter, had any conception. And she knew 
 it, not because of any word of complaint that 
 had escaped his lips, but because every look and
 
 144 THE FLAG 
 
 mood and motion told her the story. He 
 would not send for his grandson ; he would not 
 ask him to come back; he would not force him 
 to come. It was a piece of childish folly on the 
 boy's part no doubt, this going away; due to 
 his impetuous nature and his immature years; 
 but, he had made his bed, now let him lie in it 
 till he should come to a realization of what 
 he had done, and, like the prodigal son of old, 
 should come back of his own accord, and ask 
 to be forgiven. Yet the days went by, and the 
 weeks grew long, and no prodigal returned. 
 There was no abatement of determination on 
 the grandfather's part, but the idea grew slowly 
 in his mind that if by some chance, far removed 
 from even the suspicion of design, they should 
 encounter each other, he and the boy, face to 
 face, in the village street, on the open road, in 
 field or farm-house, something might be said 
 or done that would lead to the longed-for re- 
 conciliation. It was the practical application 
 of this thought that led to his change of attitude 
 that morning in the presence of his visitors. 
 He would have a legitimate errand to the home 
 of Enos Walker. The incidental opportuni-
 
 THE FLAG 145 
 
 ties that might lie in the path of such an errand 
 properly fulfilled, were not to be lightly ig- 
 nored nor peremptorily dismissed. At any 
 rate the matter was worth careful considera- 
 tion. He considered it, and made his decision. 
 
 That afternoon, after his daughter Millicent 
 had gone down into the village in entire ignor- 
 ance of any purpose that he might have had 
 to leave the house, he ordered his horse and cut- 
 ter for a drive. Later he changed the order, 
 and directed that his team and two-seated 
 sleigh be brought to the door. It had occurred 
 to him that there was a bare possibility that he 
 might have a passenger on his return trip. 
 Then he arrayed himself in knee-high rubber 
 boots, a heavy overcoat, and a fur cap. At 
 three o'clock he entered his sleigh and directed 
 his driver to proceed with all reasonable haste 
 to Cobb's Corners. 
 
 Out in the country where the winds of win- 
 ter had piled the snow into long heaps, the 
 beaten track was getting soft, and it was nec- 
 essary to exercise some care in order to prevent 
 the horses from slumping through the drifts to 
 the road-bed. And on the westerly slope of
 
 146 THE FLAG 
 
 Baldwin's Hill the ground in the middle of the 
 road was bare for at least forty rods. But, 
 from that point on, whether his progress was 
 fast or slow, Colonel Butler scrutinized the way 
 ahead of him, and the farm-houses that he 
 passed, with painstaking care. He was not 
 looking for any spruce tree here, no matter how 
 straight and tall. But if haply some farmer's 
 boy should be out on an errand for the master 
 of the farm, it would be inexcusable to pass him 
 negligently by ; that was all. And yet his vig- 
 ilance met with no reward. He had not caught 
 the remotest glimpse of such a boy when his 
 sleigh drew up at Enos Walker's gate. 
 
 The unusual jingling of bells brought Sarah 
 Butler and her sister to the window of the sit- 
 ting-room to see who it was that was bringing 
 such a flood of tinkling music up the road. 
 
 "For the land sakes!" exclaimed the sister; 
 "it's Richard Butler, and he's stopping here. 
 I bet a cookie he's come after Pen." 
 
 But Pen's mother did not respond. Her 
 heart was beating too fast, she could not speak. 
 
 "You've got to go to the door, Sarah," con- 
 tinued the sister; "I'm not dressed."
 
 THE FLAG 147 
 
 Colonel Butler was already on his way up 
 the path, and, a moment later, his knock was 
 heard at the door. It was opened by Sarah 
 Butler who stood there facing him with out- 
 ward calmness. Evidently the colonel had not 
 anticipated seeing her, and, for the moment, 
 he was apparently disconcerted. But he re- 
 covered himself at once and inquired court- 
 eously if Mr. Walker was at home. It was 
 the third time in his life that he had spoken 
 to his daughter-in-law. The first time was 
 when she returned from her bridal trip, and the 
 interview on that occasion had been brief and 
 decisive. The second time was when her hus- 
 band was lying dead in the modest home to 
 which he had taken her. Now he had spoken 
 to her again, and this time there was no bit- 
 terness in his tone nor iciness in his man- 
 ner. 
 
 "Yes," she replied; "father is somewhere 
 about. If you will please come in and be 
 seated I will try to find him." 
 
 He followed her into the sitting-room, and 
 took the chair that she placed for him. 
 
 "I beg that you will not put yourself to too
 
 148 THE FLAG 
 
 much trouble," he said, "in trying to find him; 
 although I desire to see him on a somewhat 
 important errand." 
 
 "It will not be the slightest trouble," she 
 assured him. 
 
 But, as she turned to go, he added as though 
 a new thought had come to him : 
 
 "Perhaps you have some young person about 
 the premises whom you could send out in 
 search of Mr. Walker, and thus save yourself 
 the effort of finding him." 
 
 "No," she replied. "There is no young per- 
 son here. I will go myself. It will take but 
 a minute or two." 
 
 It was a feeble attempt on his part, and it 
 had been quickly foiled. So there was nothing 
 for him to do but to sit quietly in the chair that 
 had been placed for him, and await the com- 
 ing of Enos Walker. 
 
 Yet he could not help but wonder as he sat 
 there, what had become of Pen. She had said 
 that there was no young person there. Was 
 the boy's absence only temporary, or had he 
 left the home of his maternal grandfather and 
 gone to some place still more remote and inac-
 
 THE FLAG 149 
 
 cesssible? He was consumed with a desire to 
 know ; but he would not have made the inquiry, 
 save as a matter of life and death. 
 
 It was fully five minutes later that the guest 
 in the sitting-room heard some one stamping 
 the snow off his boots in the kitchen adjoining, 
 then the door of the room was opened, and 
 Enos Walker stood on the threshold. His 
 trousers were tucked into the tops of his boots, 
 his heavy reefer jacket was tightly buttoned, 
 and his cloth cap was still on his head. 
 
 "Good afternoon, Mr. Butler," he said. 
 "I'm pleased to see ye. I didn't know as ye'd 
 think it wuth while to come." 
 
 "It is always worth while," replied the col- 
 onel, "to meet a business proposition frankly 
 and fairly. I am here, at your suggestion, to 
 discuss with you the matter of the purchase of 
 a certain tree." 
 
 Grandpa Walker advanced into the room, 
 closing the door behind him, went over to the 
 window, laid aside his cap, and dropped into 
 his accustomed chair. 
 
 "Jes' so," he said. "Set down, an' we'll talk 
 it over." When the colonel was seated he con-
 
 150 THE FLAG 
 
 tinued : "They tell me ye want to buy a spruce 
 tree. Is that right?" 
 
 "That is correct." 
 
 "Want it fer a flag-pole, eh?" 
 
 "Yes. It is proposed to erect a staff on the 
 school grounds at Chestnut Hill." 
 
 "Jes' so. In that case ye want a perty good 
 one. Tall, straight, slender, small-limbed; 
 proper in every way." 
 
 "Exactly." 
 
 "Well, I've got it." 
 
 "So I have heard. I have come to bargain 
 for it." 
 
 "All right! Want to look at it fust, I 
 s'pose." 
 
 "I have come prepared to inspect it." 
 
 "That's business. I'll go down to the 
 swamp with ye an' we'll look her over." 
 
 Grandpa Walker rose from his chair and 
 replaced his cap on his head. 
 
 "Is the tree located at some distance from 
 the house?" inquired the colonel. 
 
 "Oh, mebbe a quarter of a mile; mebbe not 
 so fer." 
 
 "A have you some young person about,
 
 THE FLAG 151 
 
 whom you could send with me to inspect it, and 
 thus save yourself the trouble of tramping 
 through the snow?" 
 
 Grandpa Walker looked at his visitor curi- 
 ously before replying. 
 
 "No," he said, after a moment, "I ain't. 
 I've got a young feller stoppin' with me; but 
 he started up to Henry Cobb's about two 
 o'clock. How fer beyond Henry's he's got by 
 this time I can't say. I ain't so soople as I 
 was once, that's a fact. But when it comes to 
 trampin' through the woods, snow er no snow, 
 I reckon I can hold up my end with anybody 
 that wears boots. Ef ye're ready, come 
 along!" 
 
 A look of disappointment came into the 
 colonel's face. He did not move. After a 
 moment he said : 
 
 "On second thought, I believe I will not take 
 the time nor the trouble to inspect the tree." 
 
 "Don't want it, eh?" 
 
 "Yes, I want it. I'll take it on your recom- 
 mendation and that of my agents, Messrs. Mor- 
 rissey and Campbell. If you'll name your 
 price I'll pay you for it."
 
 152 THE FLAG 
 
 Grandpa Walker went back and sat down 
 in his cushioned chair by the window. He 
 laid his cap aside, picked up his pipe from 
 the window-sill, lighted it, and began to 
 smoke. 
 
 "Well," he said, at last, "that's a prime tree. 
 That tree's wuth money." 
 
 "Undoubtedly, sir; undoubtedly; but how 
 much money?" 
 
 The old man puffed for a moment in silence. 
 Then he asked: 
 
 "Want it fer a liberty-pole, do ye?" 
 
 "I want it for a liberty-pole." 
 
 "To put the school flag on?" 
 
 "To put the school flag on." 
 
 There was another moment of silence. 
 
 "They say," remarked the old man, inquir- 
 ingly, "that you gave the flag?" 
 
 "I gave the flag." 
 
 "Then, by cracky! I'll give the pole." 
 
 Enos Walker rose vigorously to his feet in 
 order properly to emphasize his offer. Colonel 
 Butler did not respond. This sudden turn of 
 affairs had almost taken away his breath. 
 Then a grim smile stole slowly into his face.
 
 THE FLAG 153 
 
 The humor of the situation began to appeal to 
 him. 
 
 "Permit me to commend you," he said, "for 
 your liberality and patriotism." 
 
 "I didn't fight in no Civil War," added the 
 old man, emphatically; "but I ain't goin' to hev 
 it said by nobody that Enos Walker ever 
 profited a penny on a pole fer his country's 
 flag." 
 
 The old soldier's smile broadened. 
 
 "Good!" he exclaimed. "That's very good. 
 We'll stand together as joint donors of the em- 
 blem of freedom." 
 
 "And I ain't ashamed of it nuther," cried the 
 new partner, "an' here's my hand on it." 
 
 The two men shook hands, and this time 
 Colonel Richard Butler laughed outright. 
 
 "This is fine," he said. "I'll send men to- 
 morrow to cut the tree down, trim it, and haul 
 it to town. There's no time to lose. The 
 roads are getting soft. Why, half of Bald- 
 win's Hill is already bare." 
 
 He started toward the door, but his host 
 called him back. 
 
 "Don't be in a hurry," said Grandpa
 
 154 THE FLAG 
 
 Walker. "Set down a while, can't ye? Have 
 a piece o' pie or suthin. Or a glass o' cider." 
 
 "Thank you! Nothing at all. I'm in some 
 haste. It's getting late. And I desire to 
 make a brief call on Henry Cobb before re- 
 turning home." 
 
 The old man made no further effort to de- 
 tain his visitor ; but he gave him a cordial invi- 
 tation to come again, shook hands with him at 
 the door, and watched him half way down to 
 the gate. When he turned and re-entered his 
 house he found his two daughters already in 
 the sitting-room. 
 
 "Did he come for Pen?" asked Sarah But- 
 ler, breathlessly. 
 
 "Ef he did," replied her father, "he didn't 
 say so. He wanted my spruce tree, and I give 
 it to him. And I want to tell ye one thing 
 fu'ther. I've got a sort o' sneakin* notion that 
 Colonel Richard Butler of Chestnut Hill ain't 
 more'n about one-quarter's bad as he's be'n 
 painted." 
 
 Henry Cobb's residence was scarcely a half 
 mile beyond the home of Enos Walker. It 
 was the most imposing farm-house in that
 
 THE FLAG 155 
 
 neighborhood, splendidly situated on high 
 ground, with a rare outlook to the south and 
 east. Mr. Cobb himself was just emerging 
 from the open door of a great barn that fronted 
 the road as Colonel Butler drove up. He came 
 out to the sleigh and greeted the occupant of it 
 cordially. The two men were old friends. 
 
 "It's a magnificent view you have here," said 
 the colonel; "magnificent!" 
 
 "Yes," was the reply, "we rather enjoy it. 
 I've lived in this neighborhood all my life, and 
 the longer I live here the better I like it." 
 
 "That's the proper spirit, sir, the proper 
 spirit." 
 
 For a moment both men looked off across the 
 snow-mantled valleys and the wooded slopes, 
 to the summit of the hill-range far to the east, 
 touched with the soft light of the sinking sun. 
 
 "You're quite a stranger in these parts," said 
 Henry Cobb, breaking the silence. 
 
 "Yes," was the reply. "I don't often get 
 up here. I came up to-day to make an ar- 
 rangement with your neighbor, Mr. Walker, 
 for the purchase of a very fine spruce tree on 
 his property."
 
 156 THE FLAG 
 
 "So? Did you succeed in closing a bargain 
 with him?'' 
 
 "Yes. He has consented to let it go." 
 
 "You don't say so ! I would hardly have be- 
 lieved it. Now, I don't want to be curious nor 
 anything ; but would you mind telling me what 
 you had to pay for it?" 
 
 "Nothing. He gave it to us." 
 
 "He what?" 
 
 "He gave it to us to be used as a flag-staff 
 on the grounds of the public school at Chestnut 
 Hill." 
 
 "You don't mean that he gave you that won- 
 derful spruce that stands down in the corner 
 of his swamp ; the one Morrissey and Campbell 
 were up looking at yesterday?" 
 
 "I believe that is the one." 
 
 "Why, colonel, that spruce was the apple 
 of his eye. If I've heard him brag that tree up 
 once, I've heard him brag it up fifty times. 
 He never gave away anything in his life be- 
 fore. What's come over the old man, any- 
 way?" 
 
 "Well, when he learned that I had donated 
 the flag, he declared that he would donate the
 
 THE FLAG 157 
 
 staff. I suppose he didn't want to be outdone 
 in the matter of patriotism." 
 
 "Good for him!" exclaimed Henry Cobb. 
 "He'll be a credit to his country yet;" and he 
 laughed merrily. Then, sobering down, he 
 added: "But, say; look here! can't you let me 
 in on this thing too? I don't want to be out- 
 done by either of you. I'll tell you what I'll 
 do. I'll cut the tree, and trim it, and haul it 
 to town tomorrow, free gratis for nothing. 
 What do you say?" 
 
 Then the colonel laughed in his turn, and 
 he reached out his one hand and shook hands 
 warmly with Henry Cobb. 
 
 "Splendid!" he cried. "This efflorescence of 
 patriotism in the rural districts is enough to 
 delight an old soldier's heart!" 
 
 "All right ! I'll have the pole there by four 
 o'clock tomorrow afternoon, and you can de- 
 pend on it." 
 
 "I will. And I thank you, sir; not only on 
 my own account, but also in the name of the 
 public of Chestnut Hill, and on behalf of our 
 beloved country. Now I must go. I have 
 decided, in returning, to drive across by Dar-
 
 158 THE FLAG 
 
 bytown, strike the creek road, and go down 
 home by that route in order to avoid drifts and 
 bare places. Oh, by the way, there's a little 
 matter I neglected to speak to Mr. Walker 
 about. It's of no great moment, but I un- 
 derstand his grandson came up here this 
 afternoon, and, if he is still here, I will 
 take the opportunity to send back word by 
 him." 
 
 ^Je made the inquiry with as great an air of 
 indifference as he could assume, but his breath 
 came quick as he waited for an answer. 
 
 "Why," replied Henry Cobb, "Pen was 
 here along about three o'clock. He was look- 
 ing for a two-year old heifer that strayed away 
 yesterday. He went over toward Darby town. 
 You might run across him if you're going that 
 way. But I'll send your message down to 
 Enos Walker if you wish." 
 
 "Thank you! It doesn't matter. I may 
 possibly see the young man along the road. 
 Goodnight!" 
 
 "Goodnight, colonel!" 
 
 The impatient horses were given rein once 
 more, and dashed away to the music of the two
 
 THE FLAG 159 
 
 score bells that hung from their shining har- 
 ness. 
 
 But, although Colonel Richard Butler 
 scanned every inch of the way from Henry 
 Cobb's to Darbytown, with anxious and long- 
 ing eyes, he did not once catch sight of any 
 farmer's boy searching for a two-year old heifer 
 that had strayed from its home. 
 
 At dusk he stepped wearily from his sleigh 
 and mounted the steps that led to the porch of 
 Bannerhall. His daughter met him at the 
 door. 
 
 "For goodness' sake, father!" she exclaimed; 
 "where on earth have you been?" 
 
 "I have been to Cobb's Corners," was the 
 quiet reply. 
 
 "Did you get Pen?" she asked, excitedly. 
 
 "I did not." 
 
 "Wouldn't Mr. Walker let him come?" 
 
 "I made no request of any one for my 
 grandson's return. I went to obtain a spruce 
 tree from Mr. Walker, out of which to make a 
 flag-staff for the school grounds. I obtained 
 it." 
 
 "That's a wonder."
 
 160 THE FLAG 
 
 "It is not a wonder, Millicent. Permit me 
 to say, as one speaking from experience, that 
 when accused of selfishness, Enos Walker 
 has been grossly maligned. I have found him 
 to be a public-spirited citizen, and a much bet- 
 ter man, in all respects, than he has been 
 painted." 
 
 His daughter made no further inquiries, for 
 she saw that he was not in a mood to be ques- 
 tioned. But, from that day forth, the shadow 
 of sorrow and of longing grew deeper on his 
 care-furrowed face.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 IT was well along in April, that year, before 
 the last of the winter's snow disappeared, and 
 the robins and blue-birds darted in and out 
 among the naked trees. But, as the sun grew 
 high, and the days long, and the spring languor 
 filled the air, Pen felt an ever-increasing dissat- 
 isfaction with his position in his grandfather 
 Walker's household, and an ever-increasing de- 
 sire to relinquish it. Not that he was afraid or 
 ashamed to work; he had sufficiently demon- 
 strated that he was not. Not that he ever ex- 
 pected to return to Bannerhall, for he had no 
 such thought. To beg to be taken back was 
 unthinkable; that he should be invited back 
 was most improbable. He had not seen his 
 grandfather Butler since he came away, nor 
 had he heard from him, except for the vivid and 
 oft-repeated recital by Grandpa Walker of the 
 spruce tree episode, and save through his Aunt 
 Millicent who made occasional visits to the fam- 
 ily at Cobb's Corners. That he deplored
 
 162 THE FLAG 
 
 Pen's departure there could be no doubt, but 
 that he would either invite or compel him to 
 return was beyond belief. So Pen's tasks had 
 come to be very irksome to him, and his mode 
 of life very dissatisfying. If he worked he 
 wanted to work for himself, at a task in which 
 he could take interest and pride. At Cobb's 
 Corners he could see no future for himself wor- 
 thy of the name. Many times he discussed the 
 situation with his mother, and, painful as it 
 would be to her to lose him, she agreed with 
 him that he must go. He waited only the op- 
 portunity. 
 
 One day, late in April, Robert Starbird 
 dropped in while the members of the Walker 
 family were at dinner. He was a wool-buyer 
 for the Starbird Woolen Company of Low- 
 bridge, and a nephew of its president. Hav- 
 ing completed a bargain with Grandpa 
 Walker for his scanty spring clipping of fleece, 
 he turned to Pen. 
 
 "Haven't I seen you at Colonel Butler's, 
 down at Chestnut Hill?" he inquired. 
 
 "Yes," replied Pen, "I'm his grandson. I 
 used to live there."
 
 THE FLAG 163 
 
 "I thought so. Staying here now, are you?" 
 
 "Until I can get regular work; yes, sir." 
 
 "Want a job, do you?" 
 
 "I'd like one, very much." 
 
 "Well, we'll need a bobbin-boy at the mills 
 pretty soon. I suppose " 
 
 And then Grandpa Walker interrupted. 
 
 "I guess," he said, " 't we can keep the young 
 man busy here for a while yet." 
 
 Robert Starbird looked curiously for a mo- 
 ment, from man to boy, and then, saying that 
 he must go on up to Henry Cobb's to make a 
 deal with him for his fleece, he went out to his 
 buggy, got in and drove away. 
 
 Pen went back to his work in the field with a 
 sinking heart. It had not before occurred to 
 him that Grandpa Walker would object to his 
 leaving him whenever he should find satisfac- 
 tory and profitable employment elsewhere. 
 But it was now evident that, if he went, he must 
 go against his grandfather's will. His first 
 opportunity had already been blocked. What 
 opposition he would meet with in the future 
 he could only conjecture. 
 
 With Old Charlie hitched to a stone-boat,
 
 164 THE FLAG 
 
 he was drawing stones from a neighbor's field 
 to the roadside, where men were engaged in 
 laying up a stone wall. He had not been long 
 at work since the dinner hour, when, chancing 
 to look up, he saw Robert Starbird driving 
 down the hill from Henry Cobb's on his way 
 back to Chestnut Hill. A sudden impulse 
 seized him. He threw the reins across Old 
 Charlie's back, left him standing willingly in 
 his tracks, and started on a run across the lot 
 to head off Robert Starbird at the roadside. 
 The man saw him coming and stopped his 
 horse. 
 
 Panting a little, both from exertion and ex- 
 citement, Pen leaped the fence and came up 
 to the side of the buggy. 
 
 "Mr. Starbird," he said, "if that job is still 
 open, I I think I'll take it if you'll give it to 
 
 me." 
 
 The man, looking at him closely, saw deter- 
 mination stamped on his countenance. 
 
 "Why, that's all right," he said. "You 
 could have the job; but what about your grand- 
 father Walker? He doesn't seem to want you 
 to leave."
 
 THE FLAG 165 
 
 "I know. But my mother's willing. And 
 I'll make it up to Grandpa Walker some way. 
 I can't stay here, Mr. Starbird; and I'm not 
 going to. They're good enough to me here. 
 I've no complaint to make. But I want a 
 real job and a fair chance." 
 
 He paused, out of breath. The intensity 
 of his desire, and the fixedness of his purpose 
 were so sharply manifest that the man in the 
 wagon did not, for the moment, reply. He 
 placed his whip slowly in its socket, and seemed 
 lost in thought. At last he said : 
 
 "Henry Cobb has been telling me about 
 you. He gives you a very good name." 
 
 He paused a moment and then added : 
 
 "I'll tell you what I'll do. If you'll give the 
 old gentleman fair notice and not sneak away 
 from him like a vagabond I won't harbor any 
 runaways why, I'll see that you get the job." 
 
 Pen drew a long breath, and his face lighted 
 up with pleasure. 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Starbird!" he exclaimed. 
 "Thank you very much. When may I come?" 
 
 "Well, let's see. To-day's Wednesday. 
 Suppose you report for duty next Monday."
 
 166 THE FLAG 
 
 "All right! I'll be there. I'll leave here 
 Monday morning. I'll speak to Grandpa 
 Walker to-night." 
 
 "Very well. See you Monday. Good- 
 by!" 
 
 "Good-by!" 
 
 Robert Starbird chirruped to his horse, 
 started on, and was soon lost to sight around a 
 bend in the road. 
 
 And Pen strode back across the field, 
 prouder and happier than he had ever been 
 before in all his life. 
 
 But he still had Grandpa Walker to settle 
 with. 
 
 At supper time, on the evening after his talk 
 with Robert Starbird, Pen had no opportunity 
 to inform his grandfather of the success of his 
 application for employment. For, almost as 
 soon as he left the table, Grandpa Walker got 
 his hat and started down to the store to discuss 
 politics and statecraft with his loquacious 
 neighbors. But Pen felt that his grandfather 
 should know, that night, of the arrangement 
 he had made for employment, and so, after his 
 evening chores were done, he went down to the
 
 THE FLAG 167 
 
 gate at the roadside to wait for the old man to 
 come home. 
 
 The air was as balmy as though it had been 
 an evening in June. Somewhere in the trees 
 by the fence a pair of wakeful birds was chirp- 
 ing. From the swamp below the hill came the 
 hoarse croaking of bull-frogs. Above the 
 summit of the wooded slope that lay toward 
 Chestnut Hill the full moon was climbing, and, 
 aslant the road, the maples cast long shadows 
 toward the west. 
 
 To Pen, as he stood there waiting, came his 
 mother. A wrap was around her shoulders, 
 and a light scarf partly covered her head. She 
 had finished her evening work and had come 
 out to find him. 
 
 "Are you waiting for grandpa?" she asked; 
 though she knew without asking, that he 
 was. 
 
 "Yes," was the reply. "I want to see him 
 about leaving. I had a talk with Mr. Starbird 
 this afternoon, in the road, and he's given me 
 the job he spoke about. I wasn't going to tell 
 you until after I'd seen grandpa, and the 
 trouble was all over."
 
 168 THE FLAG 
 
 "You dear boy! And if grandpa objects 
 to your going?" 
 
 "Well, I I think I'll go anyway. Look 
 here, mother," he continued, hastily; "I don't 
 want to be mean nor anything like that; and 
 grandpa's been kind to me; but, mother I 
 can't stay here. Don't you see I can't stay 
 here?" 
 
 He held his arms out to her appealingly, and 
 she took them and put them about her neck. 
 
 "I know, dear," she said; "I know. And 
 grandfather must let you go. I shall die of 
 loneliness, but you must have a chance." 
 
 "Thank you, mother! And as soon as I can 
 earn enough you shall come to live with me." 
 
 "I shall come anyway before very long, 
 dearie. I worked for other people before I 
 was married. I can do it again." 
 
 She laughed a little, but on her cheeks tears 
 glistened in the moonlight. 
 
 Then, suddenly, they were aware that 
 Grandpa Walker was approaching them. He 
 was coming up the road, talking to himself as 
 was his custom when alone, especially if his 
 mind was ill at ease. And his mind was not
 
 THE FLAG 169 
 
 wholly at ease to-night. The readiness with 
 which Pen had, that day, accepted a suggestion 
 of employment elsewhere, had given him some- 
 thing of a turn. He could not contemplate, 
 with serenity, the prospect of resuming the bur- 
 dens of which his grandson had, for the last 
 two months, relieved him. To become again 
 a "hewer of wood and drawer of water" for his 
 family was a prospect not wholly to his liking. 
 He became suddenly aware that two people 
 were standing at his gate in the moonlight. 
 He stopped in the middle of the road, to look 
 at them inquiringly. 
 
 "It's I, father!" his daughter called out to 
 him. "Pen and I. We've been waiting for 
 you." 
 
 "Eh ? Waitin' for me ?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, Pen has something he wants to say to 
 
 you." 
 
 The old man crossed over to the roadside 
 fence and leaned on it. The announce- 
 ment was ominous. He looked sharply at 
 Pen. 
 
 "Well," he said. "I'm listenin'." 
 "Grandpa," began Pen, "I want you to be
 
 170 THE FLAG 
 
 willing that I should take that job that Mr. 
 Starbird spoke about to-day." 
 
 "So, that's it, is it? Ye've got the rovin' 
 bee a buzzin' in your head, have ye? Don't ye 
 know 't 'a rollin' stone gethers no moss'?" 
 
 "Well, grandpa, I'm not contented here. 
 Not but what you're good enough to me, and 
 all that, but I'm unhappy here. And I saw 
 Mr. Starbird again this afternoon, and he said 
 I could have that job." 
 
 "Think a job in a mill's better'n a job on a 
 farm?" 
 
 "I think it is for me, grandpa." 
 
 "Work too hard for ye here?" 
 
 "Why, I'm not complaining about the work 
 being hard. It's just because farm work does 
 not suit me." 
 
 "Don't suit most folks 'at ain't inclined to 
 dig into it." 
 
 Then Pen's mother spoke up. 
 
 "Now, father," she said, "you know Pen's 
 done a man's work since he's been here, and 
 he's never whimpered about it. And it isn't 
 quite fair for you to insinuate that he's been 
 lazy."
 
 THE FLAG 171 
 
 "I ain't insinuatin' nothin'," replied the old 
 man, doggedly. "I ain't findin' no fault with 
 what he's done sence he's been here; I'm just 
 gittin' at what he thinks he's goin' to do." He 
 turned again to Pen. "Made up yer mind to 
 go, hev ye?" 
 
 "Yes, grandpa." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "Next Monday morning." 
 
 "Wuther I'm willin' or no?" 
 
 "I want you to be willing." 
 
 "I say, wuther I'm willin' or no?" 
 
 In the moonlight the old man's face bore a 
 look of severity that augured ill for any happy 
 completion to Pen's plan. A direct question 
 had been asked, and it called for a direct an- 
 swer. And with the answer would come the 
 clash of wills. Pen felt it coming, and, al- 
 though he was apprehensive to the verge of 
 alarm, he braced himself to meet it calmly. 
 His answer was frank, and direct. 
 
 "Yes, grandpa." 
 
 "Well, I'm willin'." 
 
 "Why, grandpa!" 
 
 "Father! you old dear!" from Pen's mother.
 
 172 THE FLAG 
 
 "I say I'm willin'," repeated the old man. 
 "I bed hoped 't Pen'd stay here to hum an' help 
 me out with the farm work. I ain't so soople 
 as I use to be. An' Mirandy's man's got a 
 stiddy job a-teamin'. An' the boy seemed to 
 take to the work natural, and I thought he 
 liked it, and I rested easy and took my comfort 
 till Robert Starbird put that notion in his head 
 to-day. Sence then I ain't had no hope." 
 
 "I'm sorry to leave you, grandpa, and it's 
 awfully good of you to let me go, and you 
 know I wouldn't go if I thought I could pos- 
 sibly stay and be contented." 
 
 "I understand. It's the same with most 
 young fellers. They see suthin' better away 
 from hum. And I ain't willin' to stand in the 
 way o' no young feller that thinks he can bet- 
 ter himself some'eres else. When I was fif- 
 teen I wanted to go down to Chestnut Hill and 
 work in Sampson's planin' factory; but my 
 father wouldn't let me. Consekence is I never 
 got spunk enough agin to leave the farm. So 
 I ain't goin' to stand in nobody else's way, 
 you can go Monday mornin* or any other 
 mornin', and I'll just say God bless ye, an'
 
 THE FLAG 173 
 
 good luck to ye, an' start in agin on the chores." 
 Then Pen's mother, like a girl still in her 
 sympathies and impulses, flung her arms 
 around her father's neck, and hugged him till 
 he was positively obliged to use force to re- 
 lease himself. And they all walked up the 
 path together in the moonlight, and entered 
 the house and told Grandma Walker and Aunt 
 Miranda of Pen's contemplated departure, to 
 which Grandpa Walker, with martyrlike coun- 
 tenance, added the story of his own unhappy 
 prospect. 
 
 When Monday morning came Pen was up 
 long before his usual hour for rising. He did 
 all the chores, picked up a dozen odds and ends, 
 and left everything ship-shape for his grand- 
 father who was now to succeed him in doing the 
 morning work. Then he changed his clothes, 
 packed his suit-case and came down to break- 
 fast. Grandpa Walker had offered to take 
 him into town with Old Charlie, but Pen had 
 learned, the night before, that Henry Cobb 
 was going down to Chestnut Hill in the morn- 
 ing, and when Mr. Cobb heard that Pen also 
 was going, he gave him an invitation to ride
 
 174 THE FLAG 
 
 with him. He and the boy had become fast 
 friends during Pen's sojourn at Cobb's Cor- 
 ners, and both of them anticipated, with pleas- 
 ure, the ride into town. 
 
 After breakfast Grandpa Walker lighted 
 his pipe and put on his hat but he did not go to 
 the store, as had been his custom; he stayed 
 to say good-by to Pen, and to bid him God- 
 speed, as he had said he would, and to tell him 
 that when he lacked for work, or wanted a 
 home, there was a latch-string at Cobb's Cor- 
 ners that was always hanging out for him. He 
 did more than that. He shoved into Pen's 
 hands enough money to pay for a few weeks' 
 board at Lowbridge, and told him that if he 
 needed more, to write and ask for it. 
 
 "It's comin* to ye," he said, when Pen pro- 
 tested. "Ye ain't had nothin' sence ye been 
 here, and I kind o' calculate ye've earned it." 
 
 Pen's mother went with him to the gate to 
 wait for Henry Cobb to come along; and when 
 they saw Mr. Cobb driving down the hill to- 
 ward them, she kissed Pen good-by, adjured 
 him to be watchful of his health, and to write 
 frequently to her, and then went back up the
 
 THE FLAG 175 
 
 path toward the house she could not see for the 
 tears that filled her eyes. 
 
 Henry Cobb drove a smart horse, and a 
 buggy that was spick and span, and it was a 
 pleasure to ride with him. He pulled up at 
 the gate with a flourish, and told Pen to put 
 his suit-case under the seat, and to jump in. 
 
 It was not until after they had left the Cor- 
 ners some distance behind them that the object 
 of Pen's journey was mentioned. Then 
 Henry Cobb asked: 
 
 "How does the old gentleman like your leav- 
 ing?" 
 
 "I don't think he likes it very well," was the 
 reply. "But he's been lovely about it. He 
 gave me some money and his blessing." 
 
 "You don't say so!" 
 
 Henry Cobb stared at the boy in astonish- 
 ment. It was not an unheard of thing for 
 Grandpa Walker to give his blessing; but that 
 he should give money besides, was, to say the 
 least, unusual. 
 
 "Yes," replied Pen, "he couldn't have 
 treated me better if I'd lived with him always." 
 
 Mr. Cobb cast a contemplative eye on the
 
 176 THE FLAG 
 
 landscape, and, for a full minute, he was si- 
 lent. Then he turned again to Pen. 
 
 "I don't want to be curious or anything," he 
 said ; "but would you mind telling me how much 
 money the old gentleman gave you?" 
 
 "Not at all," was the prompt reply. "He 
 gave me eighteen dollars." 
 
 "Good for him!" exclaimed the man. "He's 
 got more good stuff in him than I gave him 
 credit for. I was afraid he might have given 
 you only a dollar or two, and I was going to 
 lend you a little to help you out. I will yet 
 if you need it. I will any time you need it." 
 
 Henry Cobb was not prodigal with his 
 money, but he was kind-hearted, and he had 
 seen enough of Pen to feel that he was taking 
 no risk. 
 
 "You're very kind," replied the boy, "but 
 grandpa's money will last me a good while, and 
 I shall get wages enough to keep me comfor- 
 tably, and I shall not need any more." 
 
 After a while Mr. Cobb's thoughts turned 
 again to Grandpa Walker. 
 
 "He'll miss you terribly," he said to Pen. 
 "He hasn't had so easy a time in all his life be-
 
 THE FLAG 177 
 
 fore as he's had this spring, with you to do all 
 the farm chores and help around the house. 
 It'll be like pulling teeth for him to get into 
 harness again." 
 
 Henry Cobb gave a little chuckle. He 
 knew how fond Grandpa Walker was of com- 
 fortable ease. 
 
 "Well," replied Pen, "I'm sorry to go, and 
 leave him with all the work to do; but you 
 know how it is, Mr. Cobb." 
 
 "Yes, I know; I know. And you're going 
 with splendid people. I've known the Star- 
 birds all my life. None better in the coun- 
 try." 
 
 They had reached the summit of the eleva- 
 tion overlooking the valley that holds Chestnut 
 Hill. Spring lay all about them in a riot of 
 fresh green. The world, to boyish eyes, had 
 never before looked so fair, nor had the present 
 ever before been filled with brighter promises 
 for the future. But the morning ride, delight- 
 ful as it had been, was drawing to an end. 
 
 Coming from Cobb's Corners into Chestnut 
 Hill you go down the Main street past Ban- 
 nerhall. Pen looked as he went by, but he
 
 178 THE FLAG 
 
 saw no one there. The lawn was rich with a 
 carpet of fresh, young grass, the crocus beds 
 and the tulip plot were ablaze with color, and 
 the swelling buds that crowned the maples 
 with a haze and halo of elusive pink foretold 
 the luxury of summer foliage. But no human 
 being was in sight. The street looked strange 
 to Pen as they drove along; as strange as 
 though he had been away two years instead of 
 two months. They stopped in front of the 
 post-office, and he remained in the wagon and 
 minded the horse while Henry Cobb went into 
 a hardware store near by. People passed back 
 and forth, and some of them looked at him and 
 said "good-morning," in a distant way, as 
 though it were an effort for them to speak to 
 him. He knew the cause of their indifference 
 and he did not resent it, though it cut him 
 deeply. Last winter it would have been dif- 
 ferent. But last winter he was the grandson 
 of Colonel Richard Butler, and lived with that 
 old patriot amid the memories and luxuries of 
 Bannerhall. To-day he was the grandson of 
 Enos Walker, of Cobb's Corners, leaving the 
 farm to seek a petty job in a mill, discredited
 
 THE FLAG 179 
 
 in the eyes of the community because of his 
 disloyalty to his country's flag. He was mus- 
 ing on these things when some one called to 
 him from the sidewalk. It was Aunt Mil- 
 licent. 
 
 "Pen Butler!" she cried, "get right down 
 here and kiss me." 
 
 Pen did her bidding. 
 
 "What in the world are you doing here?" 
 she continued. 
 
 "I'm on my way to Lowbridge," he said. 
 "I have a job up there in the Starbird woolen 
 mills, as bobbin-boy." 
 
 "Well, for goodness sake ! Who would have 
 thought it? Pen Butler going to work as a 
 bobbin-bojM And Lowbridge is fourteen 
 miles away, and we shall never see you again." 
 
 Pen comforted her as best he could, and ex- 
 plained his reasons for going, and then he asked 
 after the health of his grandfather Butler. 
 
 "Don't ask me," she said disconsolately. 
 "He's grieving himself into his grave about 
 you. But he doesn't say a word, and he won't 
 let me say a word. Oh, dear!" 
 
 Then Henry Cobb came out and greeted
 
 180 THE FLAG 
 
 Aunt Millicent, and, after a few more inquiries 
 and admonitions, she kissed Pen good-by and 
 went on her way. 
 
 Mr. Cobb was going on down to Chestnut 
 Valley, but, as the train to Lowbridge did not 
 leave until afternoon, Pen said he would go 
 down later. So he was left on the sidewalk 
 there alone. He did not quite know what to 
 do with himself. The boys were, doubtless, all 
 in school. He walked up the street a little 
 way, and then he walked back again. He had 
 no reason for entering any of the stores, and 
 no desire to do so. There was really no place 
 for him to go. Finally he decided that he 
 would go down to the Valley and wait there 
 for the train. So he started on down the hill. 
 People whom he met, acquaintances of the old 
 days, looked at him askance, spoke to him in- 
 differently, or ignored him altogether. It 
 seemed to him that he was like a stranger in 
 an alien land. 
 
 As he passed by the school-house a boy whom 
 he did not know was lingering about the steps. 
 Otherwise there was no one in sight. 
 
 Then, suddenly, there burst upon his view
 
 THE FLAG 181 
 
 a sight for which he was not prepared. In the 
 yard on the lower side of the school-house, the 
 yard through which he and his victorious troops 
 had driven the retreating enemy at the battle 
 of Chestnut Hill, a flag-staff was standing; 
 tall, straight, symmetrical, and from its summit 
 floated the Star-Spangled Banner; the very 
 banner that he had trodden under his feet that 
 February day. It was as though some one had 
 struck him on the breast with an ice-cold hand. 
 He gasped and stood still, his eyes fixed im- 
 movably on the flag. Then something stirred 
 within him, a strange impulse that ran the 
 quick gamut of his nerves; and when he came 
 to himself he was standing in the street, with 
 head bared and bowed, and his eyes filled with 
 tears. Like Saul of Tarsus he had been 
 stricken in the way, and ever afterward, when- 
 ever and wherever he saw his country's flag, 
 his soul responded to the sight, and thrilled 
 with memories of that April day when first 
 he discovered that rare quality of patriot- 
 ism that had hitherto lain dormant in his 
 breast. 
 
 So he walked on down to the railroad sta-
 
 182 THE FLAG 
 
 tion in Chestnut Valley, and went into the 
 waiting-room and sat down. 
 
 It was very lonely there and it was very tire- 
 some waiting for the train. 
 
 At noon he went out to a bakery and bought 
 for himself a light luncheon. As he was re- 
 turning to the depot he came suddenly upon 
 Aleck Sands, who had had his dinner and was 
 starting back to school. There was no time 
 for either boy to consider what kind of greet- 
 ing he should give to the other. They were 
 face to face before either of them realized it. 
 As for Pen, he bore no resentment now, to- 
 ward any one. His heart had been wrung dry 
 from that feeling through two months of labor 
 and of contemplation. So, when the first 
 shock of surprise was over, he held out his 
 hand. 
 
 "Let's be friends, Aleck," he said, "and for- 
 get what's gone by." 
 
 "I'm not willing," was the reply, "to be 
 friends with any one who's done what you've 
 done." And he made a wide detour around 
 the astonished boy, and marched off up the 
 hill.
 
 THE FLAG 183 
 
 From that moment until the train came and 
 he boarded it, Pen could never afterward re- 
 member what happened. His mind was in a 
 tumult. Would the cruel echo of one minute 
 of inconsiderate folly on a February day, keep 
 sounding in his ears and hammering at his 
 heart so long as he should live? 
 
 It was mid-afternoon when Pen reached 
 Lowbridge, and he went at once to the Star- 
 bird mill on the outskirts of the town. He 
 caught sight of Robert Starbird in the mill- 
 yard, and went over to him. The man did not 
 at first recognize him. 
 
 "I'm Penfield Butler," said the boy, "with 
 whom you were talking last week." 
 
 "Oh, yes. Now I know you. You look a 
 little different, some way. I've been watching 
 out for you. How did you make out with your 
 Grandpa Walker?" 
 
 "Well, Grandpa Walker found it a little 
 hard to take up the work I'd been doing, but 
 he was quite willing I should come, and helped 
 me very much." 
 
 "I see." An amused twinkle came into the 
 man's eyes; just such a twinkle as had come
 
 184 THE FLAG 
 
 into the eyes of Henry Cobb that morning on 
 the way to Chestnut Hill. 
 
 "Well," he added, "I guess it's all right. 
 Come over to the office. We'll see what we 
 can do for you." 
 
 They crossed the mill-yard and entered the 
 office. An elderly, benevolent looking man 
 with white side-whiskers, wearing a Grand 
 Army button on the lapel of his coat, was 
 seated at a table, writing. Three or four 
 clerks were busy at their desks, and a girl was 
 working at a type-writer in a remote corner 
 of the room. 
 
 "Major Starbird," said the man who had 
 brought Pen in, "this is the boy whom I told 
 you last week I had hired as a bobbin-boy. 
 He's a grandson of Enos Walker out at Cobb's 
 Corners." 
 
 The man with white side-whiskers laid down 
 his pen, removed his glasses, and looked up 
 scrutinizingly at Pen. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I know Mr. Walker." 
 
 "He is also," added Robert Starbird, "a 
 grandson of Colonel Richard Butler at Chest- 
 nut Hill."
 
 THE FLAG 185 
 
 "Indeed! Colonel Butler is a warm friend 
 of mine. I was not aware that is your name 
 Penfield Butler?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," replied Pen. Something in the 
 man's changed tone of voice sent a sudden fear 
 to his heart. 
 
 "Are you the boy who is said to have mis- 
 treated the American flag on the school 
 grounds at Chestnut Hill?" 
 
 "I suppose I am. Yes, sir." 
 
 Pen's heart was now in his shoes. The man 
 with white side-whiskers raked him from head 
 to foot with a look that boded no good. He 
 turned to his nephew. 
 
 "I've heard of that incident," he said. "I 
 do not think we want this young man in our 
 employ." 
 
 Robert Starbird looked first at his uncle and 
 then at Pen. It was plain that he was puz- 
 zled. It was equally plain that he was disap- 
 pointed. 
 
 "I didn't know about this," he said. "I'm 
 sorry if it's anything that necessitates our de- 
 priving him of the job. Penfield, suppose you 
 retire to the waiting-room for a few minutes.
 
 186 THE FLAG 
 
 I'll talk this matter over with Major Starbird." 
 
 So Pen, with the ghosts of his misdeeds 
 haunting and harassing him, and a burden of 
 disappointment, too heavy for any boy to bear, 
 weighing him down, retired to the waiting- 
 room. For the first time since his act of dis- 
 loyalty he felt that his punishment was greater 
 than he deserved. Not that he bore resent- 
 ment now against any person, but he believed 
 the retribution that was following him was un- 
 justly proportioned to the gravity of his of- 
 fense. And if Major Starbird refused to re- 
 ceive him, what could he do then? 
 
 In the midst of these cruel forebodings he 
 heard his name called, and he went back into 
 the office. 
 
 Major Starbird's look was still keen, and his 
 voice was still forbidding. 
 
 "I do not want," he said, "to be too hasty in 
 my judgments. My nephew tells me that 
 Henry Cobb has given you an excellent rec- 
 ommendation, and we place great reliance on 
 Mr. Cobb's opinion. It may be that your of- 
 fense has been exaggerated, or that you have 
 some explanation which will mitigate it. If
 
 THE FLAG 187 
 
 you have any excuse to offer I shall be glad to 
 hear it." 
 
 "I don't think," replied Pen frankly, "that 
 there was any excuse for doing what I did. 
 Only it seems to me I've suffered enough 
 for it. And I never never had anything 
 against the flag." 
 
 He was so earnest, and his voice was so 
 tremulous with emotion, that the heart of the 
 old soldier could not help but be stirred with 
 pity. 
 
 "I have fought for my country," he said, 
 "and I reverence her flag. And I cannot have, 
 in my employ, any one who is disloyal to it." 
 
 "I am not disloyal to it, sir. I I love it." 
 
 "Would you be willing to die for it, as I 
 have been?" 
 
 "I would welcome the chance, sir." 
 
 Major Starbird turned to his nephew. 
 
 "I think we may trust him," he said. "He 
 has good blood in his veins, and he ought to 
 develop into a loyal citizen." 
 
 Pen said: "Thank you!" But he said it 
 with a gulp in his throat. The reaction had 
 quite unnerved him.
 
 188 THE FLAG 
 
 "I am sure," replied Robert Starbird, "that 
 we shall make no mistake. Penfield, suppose 
 you come with me. I will introduce you to the 
 foreman of the weaving-room. He may be 
 able to take you on at once." 
 
 So Pen, with tears of gratitude in his eyes, 
 followed his guide and friend. They went 
 through the store-room between great piles of 
 blankets, through the wool-room filled with big 
 bales of fleece, and up-stairs into the weaving- 
 room amid the click and clatter and roar of 
 three score busy and intricate looms. Pen was 
 introduced to the foreman, and his duties as 
 bobbin-boy were explained to him. 
 
 "It's easy enough," said the foreman, "if you 
 only pay attention to your work. You simply 
 have to take the bobbins in these little running- 
 boxes to the looms as the weavers call for them 
 and give you their numbers. Perhaps you had 
 better stay here this afternoon and let Dan 
 Larew show you how. I'll give him a loom 
 to-morrow morning, and you can take his 
 place." 
 
 So Pen stayed. And when the mills were 
 shut down for the day, when the big wheels
 
 THE FLAG 189 
 
 stopped, and the cylinders were still, and the 
 clatter of a thousand working metal fingers 
 ceased, and the voices of the mill girls were no 
 longer drowned by the rattle and roar of mov- 
 ing machinery, he went with Dan to his home, 
 a half mile away, where he found a good board- 
 ing-place. 
 
 At seven o'clock the next morning he was at 
 the mill, and, at the end of his first day's real 
 work for real wages, he went to his new home, 
 tired indeed, but happier than he had ever been 
 before in all his life. 
 
 So the days went by; and spring blossomed 
 into summer, and summer melted into autumn, 
 and winter came again and dropped her cover- 
 ing of snow upon the landscape, whiter and 
 softer than any fleece that was ever scoured or 
 picked or carded at the Starbird mills. And 
 then Pen had a great joy. His mother came 
 to Lowbridge to live with him. Death had 
 kindly released Grandma Walker from her 
 long suffering, and there was no longer any 
 need for his mother to stay on the little farm 
 at Cobb's Corners. She was an expert seam- 
 stress and she found more work in the town
 
 190 THE FLAG 
 
 than she could do. And the very day on which 
 she came Major Starbird knew that she was 
 coming Pen was promoted to a loom. One 
 thing only remained to cloud his happiness. 
 He was still estranged from the dear, tender- 
 hearted, but stubborn old patriot at Chestnut 
 Hill. 
 
 With only his daughter to comfort him, the 
 old man lived his lonely life, grieving silently, 
 ever more and more, at the fate which separated 
 him from this brave scion of his race, aging as 
 only the sorrowing can age, yet, with a stub- 
 born pride, and an unyielding purpose, refus- 
 ing to make the first advance toward a recon- 
 ciliation.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 PEN made good use of his leisure time at 
 Lowbridge. There was no night school there, 
 but the courses of a correspondence school 
 were available, and through that medium he 
 learned much, not only of that which pertained 
 to his calling as a textile worker, but of that 
 also which pertained to general science and 
 broad culture. Histoiy had a special fascina- 
 tion for him; the theory of government, the 
 struggles of the peoples of the old world to- 
 ward light and liberty. The working out of 
 the idea of democracy in a country like Eng- 
 land which still retained its monarchical form 
 and much of its aristocratic flavor, was a theme 
 on which he dwelt with particular pleasure. 
 Back somewhere in the line of descent his pa- 
 ternal ancestors had been of English blood, and 
 he was proud of the heroism, the spirit and the 
 energy which had made Great Britain one of 
 the mighty nations of the earth.
 
 192 THE FLAG 
 
 To France also, fighting and forging her 
 way, often through great tribulation, into the 
 family of democracies, he gave almost un- 
 stinted praise. Always splendid and chivalric, 
 whether as monarchy, empire or republic, he 
 felt that if he were to-day a soldier he would, 
 next to his own beautiful Star Spangled Ban- 
 ner, rather fight and die under the tri-color of 
 France than under the flag of any other na- 
 tion. 
 
 But of course it was to the study and con- 
 templation of his own beloved country that he 
 gave most of the time he had for reading and 
 research. He delved deeply into her history, 
 he examined her constitution and her laws, he 
 put himself in touch with the spirit of her or- 
 ganized institutions, and with the fundamental 
 ideas, carefully worked out, that had made her 
 free and prosperous and great. And by and 
 by he came to realize, in a way that he had 
 never done before, what it meant to all her 
 citizens, and especially what it meant to him, 
 Penfield Butler, to have a country such as 
 this. He thought of her in those days not 
 only as a thing of vast territorial limit and of
 
 THE FLAG 193 
 
 splendid resources of power and wealth and 
 intellect, not only as a mighty machine for hu- 
 mane and just government, but he thought of 
 her also as a beloved and beautiful personality, 
 claiming and deserving affection and fealty 
 from all her children. And he never saw the 
 flag, he never thought of it, he never dreamed 
 of it, that it did not arouse in him the same ten- 
 der and reverent feeling, the same lofty in- 
 spiration he had felt that day when he first saw 
 it floating from its staff against a back-ground 
 of clear blue sky on the school-house lawn at 
 Chestnut Hill. 
 
 He held himself closely to his tasks. Only 
 twice since he came away had he gone back 
 with his mother for a holiday visit at Cobb's 
 Corners. Grandpa Walker had a hearty 
 handshake for him, and an affectionate greet- 
 ing. The boy was forging ahead in his call- 
 ing, was developing into a fine specimen of 
 physical young manhood, and the old man was 
 proud of him. But he did not hesitate to re- 
 mind him that if a day of adversity should 
 come the latch-string of the old house was still 
 out, and he would always be as welcome there
 
 194 THE FLAG 
 
 as he was on that winter day when he had come 
 to them as an exile from Bannerhall. 
 
 One Memorial Day, as Pen stood at the en- 
 trance to the cemetery bridge watching the 
 procession of those going in to do honor to the 
 patriotic dead, he was especially impressed 
 with the fine appearance of the local company 
 of the National Guard which was acting as an 
 escort to the veterans of the Grand Army post. 
 The young men composing the company were 
 dressed in khaki, handled their rifles with ease 
 and accuracy, and marched with a soldierly 
 bearing and precision that were admirable. 
 It occurred to Pen that it might be advisable 
 for him to join this body of citizen soldiery 
 provided he had the necessary qualifications 
 and could be admitted to membership. It was 
 not so much the show and glamour of the mil- 
 itary life that appealed to him as it was the op- 
 portunity that such a membership might afford 
 to be of service to his country. Even then 
 Europe was being devastated by a war which 
 had no equal in history. The German armies, 
 trained to a point of unexampled efficiency, 
 with the aid of their Allies, had overwhelmed
 
 THE FLAG 195 
 
 Belgium and had almost succeeded in entering 
 Paris and in laying the whole of France under 
 tribute. Beaten back at a crucial moment they 
 had dug themselves into the soil of the invaded 
 
 countrv and were holding at bav the combined 
 
 / 
 
 forces of their Allied enemies. Half of Europe 
 was in arms. The tragedies of the seas were 
 appalling. International complications were 
 grave and unending. More than one states- 
 man of prophetic foresight had predicted that 
 a continuance of the war must of necessity 
 draw into the maelstrom the government of the 
 United States. In such an event the country 
 would need soldiers and many of them, and the 
 sooner they could be put into training to meet 
 such a possible emergency the better. 
 
 Moreover it was not necessary to look across 
 the ocean to foresee the necessity for military 
 readiness. Our neighbor to the south was in 
 the grip of armed lawlessness and terrorism. 
 Northern Mexico was infested with banditti 
 which were a constant menace to the safety of 
 our border. Such government as the stricken 
 country had was either unable or unwilling to 
 hold them in check. It appeared to be inevi-
 
 196 THE FLAG 
 
 table that the United States, by armed inter- 
 vention, must sooner or later come to the pro- 
 tection of its citizens. In that event the little 
 handful of troops of the regular army must of 
 necessity be reinforced by units of the state 
 militia. It might be that soldiers of the Na- 
 tional Guard would be used only for patrolling 
 the border, and it might well be that they would 
 be sent, as was one of Penfield Butler's an- 
 cestors, into the heart of Mexico to enforce 
 permanent peace and tranquility at the point 
 of the bayonet. 
 
 So this was the situation, and this was the 
 appeal to Pen's patriotic ardor. And the ap- 
 peal was a strong one. But he did not at once 
 respond to it. His work and his study ab- 
 sorbed his time and thought. It was not until 
 late in the fall of that year, the year 1915, when 
 the crises, both at home and abroad, seemed 
 rapidly approaching, that Pen took up for 
 earnest consideration the question of his en- 
 listment in the National Guard. Given by 
 nature to acting impulsively, he nevertheless, 
 in these days, weighed carefully any proposed 
 line of conduct on his part which might have
 
 THE FLAG 197 
 
 an important bearing on his future. But he 
 resolved, after due consideration, to join the 
 militia if he could. 
 
 He went to a young fellow, a wool-sorter in 
 the mills, who was a corporal in the militia, to 
 obtain the necessary information to make his 
 application. The corporal promised to take 
 the matter up for him with the captain of the 
 local company, and in due time brought him 
 an application blank to be filled out stating his 
 qualifications for membership. It was neces- 
 sary that the paper should be signed by his 
 mother as evidence of her consent to his enlist- 
 ment since he was not yet twenty-one years of 
 age. She signed it readily enough, for she 
 quite approved of his ambition, and she took 
 a motherly pride in the evidences of patriotism 
 that he was constantly manifesting. 
 
 Armed with this document he presented him- 
 self, on a drill-night, to Captain Perry in 
 the officers' quarters at the armory. The 
 captain glanced at the paper, then he laid 
 it on the table and looked up at Pen. 
 There was a troubled expression on his 
 face.
 
 198 THE FLAG 
 
 "I'm sorry, Butler," he said, "but I'm afraid 
 we can't enlist you." 
 
 The announcement came as a shock, but not 
 utterly as a surprise. For days the boy had 
 felt a kind of foreboding that something of 
 this sort would happen. Yet he did not at once 
 give way to his disappointment nor accept with- 
 out question the captain's pronouncement. 
 
 "May I inquire," he asked, "what your rea- 
 son is for rejecting me?" 
 
 Captain Perry sat back in his chair and 
 thrust his legs under the table. It was appar- 
 ent that he was embarrassed, but it was appar- 
 ent also that he would remain firm in the mat- 
 ter of his decision. Nor was Pen at such a loss 
 to understand the reason for his rejection as 
 his question might imply. He knew, instinc- 
 tively, that the old story of his disloyalty to 
 the flag had come up again, after all these 
 years, to plague and to thwart him. He was 
 quite right. 
 
 "I will tell you frankly, Butler," replied the 
 captain, "what the trouble is. Since it became 
 known that you wanted to enlist, some members 
 of my company have come to me with a protest
 
 THE FLAG 199 
 
 against accepting you. They say they repre- 
 sent the bulk of sentiment among the enlisted 
 men. You see, under these circumstances, I 
 can't very well take you. We are citizen sol- 
 diers, not under the iron discipline of the regu- 
 lar army, and in matters which are really not 
 essential I must yield more or less to the wishes 
 of my boys. They like, in a way, to choose 
 their associates." 
 
 He ended with an apologetic wave of the 
 hand, and a smile intended to be conciliatory. 
 Chagrined and wounded, but not abashed nor 
 silenced, Pen stood his ground. He resolved 
 to see the thing through, cost what pain and 
 humiliation it might. 
 
 "Would you mind telling me," he inquired, 
 "what it is they have against me?" 
 
 "Why, if you want to know, yes. They say 
 you're not patriotic. To be more explicit they 
 say that up at Chestnut Hill, where you used 
 to live, you " 
 
 Pen interrupted him. His patience was ex- 
 hausted, his calmness gone. "Oh, yes!" he ex- 
 claimed, "I know. They say I mistreated the 
 flag. They say I insulted it, threw it into the
 
 200 THE FLAG 
 
 mud and trampled on it. That's what they 
 say, isn't it?" 
 
 "Yes, substantially that. Now, I don't 
 know whether it's true or not " 
 
 "Oh, it's true enough! I don't deny it. 
 And they say also that on account of it all I 
 had to leave Colonel Butler's house and go and 
 live with my grandfather Walker at Cobb's 
 Corners. They say that, don't they?" 
 
 "Something of that kind, I believe." 
 
 "Well, that's true too. But they don't say 
 that it all happened half a dozen years ago, 
 when I was a mere boy, that I did it in a fit of 
 anger at another boy, and had nothing what- 
 ever against the flag, and that I was sorry for 
 it the next minute and have suffered and re- 
 pented ever since. They don't say that that 
 flag is just as dear to me as it is to any man in 
 America, that I love the sight of it; that I'd 
 follow it anywhere, and die for it on any bat- 
 tlefield, they don't say that, do they?" 
 
 His cheeks were blazing, his eyes were flash- 
 ing, every muscle of his body was tense under 
 the storm of passionate indignation that swept 
 over him. Captain Perry, amazed and thrilled
 
 THE FLAG 201 
 
 by the boy's earnestness, straightened up in his 
 chair and looked him squarely in the face. 
 
 "No," he replied, "they don't say that. But 
 I believe it's true. And so far as I'm con- 
 cerned " 
 
 Pen again interrupted him. 
 
 "Oh, I'm not blaming you, Captain Perry; 
 you couldn't do anything else but turn me 
 down. But some day, some way I don't 
 know how to-night but some way I'm going 
 to prove to these people that have been hound- 
 ing me that I'm as good a patriot and can be 
 as good a soldier as the best man in your com- 
 pany!" 
 
 "Good! That's splendid!" Captain Perry 
 rose to his feet and grasped the boy's hand. 
 "And I'll tell you what I'll do, Butler; if 
 you're willing to face the ordeal I'll enlist you. 
 I believe in you." 
 
 But Pen would not listen to it. 
 
 "No," he said, "I can't do that. It wouldn't 
 be fair to you, nor to your men, nor to me. 
 I'll meet the thing some other way. I'm grate- 
 ful to you all the same though." 
 
 "Very well; just as you choose. But when
 
 202 THE FLAG 
 
 you need me in your fight I'm at your service. 
 Remember that!" 
 
 On his way home from the armory it was 
 necessary that Pen should pass through the 
 main street of the town. Many of the shops 
 were still open and were brilliantly lighted, 
 and people were strolling carelessly along the 
 walk, laughing and chatting as though the 
 agony and horror and brutality of the mighty 
 conflict just across the sea were all in some 
 other planet, billions of miles away ; as though 
 the war cloud itself were not pushing its om- 
 inous black rim farther and farther above the 
 horizon of our own beloved land. Now and 
 then Pen met, singly or in pairs, khaki clad 
 young men on their way to the armory for the 
 weekly drill. Two or three of them nodded to 
 him as they passed by, others looked at him 
 askance and hurried on. The resentment that 
 had been roused in his breast at Captain 
 Perry's announcement flamed up anew; but 
 as he turned into the quieter streets on his 
 homeward route this feeling gave way to one 
 of envy, and then to one of self-pity and grief. 
 Hard as his lot had been in comparison with
 
 THE FLAG 203 
 
 the luxury he might have had had he remained 
 at Bannerhall, he had never repined over it, 
 nor had he been envious of those whose lines 
 had been cast in pleasanter places. But to- 
 night, after looking at these sturdy young fel- 
 lows in military garb preparing to serve their 
 state and their country in the not improbable 
 event of war, an intense and passionate longing 
 filled his breast to be, like them, ready to fight, 
 to kill or to be killed in defense of that flag 
 which day by day claimed his ever-increasing 
 love and devotion. That he was not permitted 
 to do so was heart-rending. That it was by 
 his own fault that he was not permitted to do 
 so was agony indeed. And yet it was all so 
 bitterly unjust. Had he not paid, a thousand 
 times over, the full penalty for his offense, 
 trivial or terrible whichever it might have been? 
 Why should the accusing ghost of it come back 
 after all these years, to hound and harass him 
 and make his whole life wretched? 
 
 It was in no cheerful or contented mood that 
 he entered his home and responded to the af- 
 fectionate greeting of his mother. 
 
 "You're home early, dear," she said.
 
 204 THE FLAG 
 
 "Didn't they keep you for drill? How does it 
 seem to be a soldier?" 
 
 "I didn't enlist, mother." 
 
 "Didn't enlist? Why not? I thought that 
 was the big thing you were going to do." 
 
 "They wouldn't take me." 
 
 "Why, Pen! what was the matter? I 
 thought it was all as good as settled." 
 
 "Well, you know that old trouble about the 
 flag at Chestnut Hill?" 
 
 "I know. I've never forgotten it. But 
 every one else has, surely." 
 
 "No, mother, they haven't. That's the rea- 
 son they wouldn't take me." 
 
 "But, Pen, that was years and years ago. 
 You were just a baby. You've paid dearly 
 enough for that. It's not fair! It's not hu- 
 man!" 
 
 She, too, was aroused to the point of indig- 
 nant but unavailing protest; for she too knew 
 how the boy, long years ago, had expiated to 
 the limit of repentance and suffering the one 
 sensational if venial fault of his boyhood. 
 
 "I know, mother. That's all true. I know 
 it's horribly un j ust ; but what can you do ? It's
 
 THE FLAG 205 
 
 a thing you can't explain because it's partly 
 true. It will keep cropping up always, and 
 how I am ever going to live it down I don't 
 know. Oh, I don't know !" 
 
 He flung himself into a chair, thrust his 
 hands deep into his trousers' pockets and stared 
 despairingly into some forbidding distance. 
 She grew sympathetic then, and consoling, and 
 went to him and put her arm around his neck 
 and laid her face against his head and tried to 
 comfort him. 
 
 "Never mind, dearie! So long as you, your- 
 self, know that you love the flag, and so long 
 as I know it, we can afford to wait for other 
 people to find it out." 
 
 "No, mother, we can't. They've got to be 
 shown. I can't live this way. Some way or 
 other I've got to prove that I'm no coward and 
 I'm no traitor." 
 
 "You're too severe with yourself, Pen. 
 There are other ways, perhaps better ways, 
 for men to prove that they love their country 
 besides fighting for her. To be a good citizen 
 may be far more patriotic than to be a good 
 soldier."
 
 206 THE FLAG 
 
 "I know. That's one of the things I've 
 learned, and I believe it. And that'll do for 
 most fellows, but it won't do for me. My case 
 is different. I mistreated the flag once with 
 my hands and arms and feet and my whole 
 body, and I've got to give my hands and arms 
 and feet and my whole body now to make up 
 for it. There's no other way. I couldn't 
 make the thing right in a thousand years simply 
 by being a good citizen. Don't you see, 
 mother? Don't you understand?" 
 
 He looked up into her face with tear filled 
 eyes. The thought that had long been with 
 him that he must prove his patriotism by per- 
 sonal sacrifice, had grown during these last 
 few days into a settled conviction and a great 
 desire. He wanted her to see the situation as 
 he saw it, and to feel with him the bitterness of 
 his disappointment. And she did. She 
 twined her arm more closely about his neck and 
 pressed her lips against his hair. 
 
 But her heart-felt sympathy made too great 
 a draft on his emotional nature. It silenced 
 his voice and flooded his eyes. So she drew 
 her chair up beside him, and he laid his head
 
 THE FLAG 207 
 
 in her lap as he had used to do when he was 
 a very little boy, and wept out his disappoint- 
 ment and grief. 
 
 And as he lay there a new thought came to 
 him. Swiftly as a whirlwind forms and sweeps 
 across the land, it took on form and motion and 
 swept through the channels of his mind. He 
 sprang to his feet, dashed the tears from his 
 face, and looked down on his mother with a 
 countenance transformed. 
 
 "Mother!" he exclaimed, "I have an idea!" 
 
 "Why, Pen ; how you startled me ! What is 
 it?" 
 
 "I have an idea, mother. I'm going to " 
 
 He paused and looked away from her. 
 
 "Going to what, Pen?" 
 
 He did not reply at once, but after a moment 
 he said: 
 
 "I'll tell you later, mother, after it's all 
 worked out and I'm sure of it. I'm not go- 
 ing to bring home to you any more disappoint- 
 ments."
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 IT was three days later that Pen came home 
 one evening, alert of step, bright-eyed, his 
 countenance beaming with satisfaction and de- 
 light. 
 
 "Well, mother," he cried as he entered the 
 house; "it's settled. I'm going!" 
 
 She looked up in surprise and alarm. 
 
 "What's settled, Pen? Where are you go- 
 ing?" 
 
 "I'm going to war." 
 
 She dropped the work at which she had been 
 busy and sat down weakly in a chair by her 
 dining-room table. He went to her and laid 
 an affectionate hand on her shoulder. 
 
 "Pardon me, mother!" he continued, "I 
 didn't mean to frighten you, but I'm so happy 
 over it." 
 
 She looked up into his face. 
 
 "To war, Pen? What war?" 
 
 "The big war, mother. The war in France.
 
 THE FLAG 209 
 
 Do you remember the other night when I told 
 you I had an idea?" 
 
 "Yes, I remember." 
 
 "Well, that was it. It occurred to me, then, 
 that if I couldn't fight for my own country, 
 under my own flag, I would fight for those 
 other countries, under their flags. They are 
 making a desperate and a splendid war to up- 
 hold the rights of civilized nations." 
 
 He stood there, erect, manly, resolute, his 
 face lighted with the glow of his enthusiasm. 
 She could but admire him, even though her 
 heart sank under the weight of his announced 
 purpose. Many times, of an evening, they had 
 talked together of the mighty conflict in Eu- 
 rope. From the very first Pen's sympathies 
 had been with France and her Allies. He 
 could not get over denouncing the swiftness and 
 savagery of the raid into Belgium, the wanton 
 destruction of her cities and her monuments of 
 art, the hardships and brutalities imposed upon 
 her people. The Bryce report, with its de- 
 tails of outrage and crime, stirred his nature 
 to its depths. The tragedy of the Lusitania 
 filled him with indignation and horror. Now,
 
 210 THE FLAG 
 
 suddenly, had come the desire and the oppor- 
 tunity to fight with those peoples who were 
 struggling to save their ideals from destruc- 
 tion. 
 
 "I'm going to Canada," he continued, "to 
 enlist in the American Legion. They say hun- 
 dreds and thousands of young men from the 
 United States who are willing to fight under 
 the Union Jack, have gone up into Canada for 
 training and are this very minute facing the 
 gray coats of the German enemy in northern 
 France." 
 
 "But, Pen," she protested, "this is such a 
 horrible war. The soldiers live in the mud- 
 diest, foulest kinds of trenches. They kill 
 each other with gases and blazing oil. They 
 slaughter each other by thousands with guns 
 that go by machinery. It's simply terrible!" 
 
 "I know, mother. It's modern warfare. 
 It's up to date. It's no pink tea as some one 
 has said. But the more awful it is the sooner 
 it'll be over, and the more credit there'll be to 
 us who fight in it." 
 
 "And you'll be so far away." 
 
 She looked up at him, pale-faced, with ap-
 
 THE FLAG 211 
 
 pealing eyes. He knew how uncontrollably 
 she shrank from the thought of losing him in 
 this wild vortex of savagery. He patted her 
 cheek tenderly. 
 
 "But you'll be a good patriot," he said, "and 
 let me go. It's my duty to fight, and it's your 
 duty to let me fight. There isn't any doubt 
 about that. Besides, this isn't really France's 
 war nor England's war any more than it is 
 our war, or any more than it is the war of any 
 country that wants to maintain the ideals of 
 modern civilization. I shall be serving my 
 country almost the same as though I were 
 fighting under the Stars and Stripes. And 
 I'll be answering in the only way it's possible 
 for me to answer, those people who have been 
 charging me with disloyalty to the flag. Oh, 
 I must show you what Grandfather Butler 
 says. He made a speech yesterday at the flag- 
 raising at Chestnut Valley, and it's all in the 
 Lowbridge Citizen this morning. Listen! 
 Here's the way he winds up." 
 
 He drew a newspaper from his pocket and 
 read : 
 
 " 'So, fellow citizens, let me predict that be-
 
 212 THE FLAG 
 
 fore this great war shall come to an end the 
 Stars and Stripes will wave over every battle- 
 field in Europe. Sooner or later we must en- 
 ter the conflict ; and the sooner the better. For 
 it's our war. It's the war of every country 
 that loves liberty and justice. Up to this mo- 
 ment the Allies have been fighting for the free- 
 dom of the world, your freedom and mine, my 
 friends, as well as their own. It is high time 
 the Government at Washington, impelled by 
 the patriotic ardor of our thinking citizens, 
 declared the enemies of England and France 
 to be our enemies, and joined hands with those 
 heroic countries to stamp out forever the teu- 
 tonic menace to liberty and civilization. In 
 the meantime I say to the red-blooded youth of 
 America: Glory awaits you on the war- 
 scarred fields of France. Go forth ! There is 
 no barrier in the way. Remember that when 
 the ragged troops of Washington were locked 
 in a death-grip with the red-coated soldiers of 
 King George, Lafayette, Rochambeau and de 
 Grasse came to our aid with six and twenty 
 thousand of the bravest sons of France. It 
 is your turn now to spring to the aid of this
 
 THE FLAG 213 
 
 stricken land and prove that you are worthy 
 descendants of the grateful patriots of old.' ' 
 
 Pen finished his reading and laid down the 
 paper. There had been a tremor in his voice 
 at the end, and his eyes were wet. 
 
 "That's grandfather," he said, "all over. I 
 knew he'd feel that way about it. I had de- 
 cided to go before I read that speech. Now 
 I couldn't stay at home if I tried. I'm his 
 grandson yet, mother, and I shall answer his 
 call to arms." 
 
 After that he sat down quietly and unfolded 
 to his mother all of his plans. He told her that 
 he had gone to Major Starbird and had con- 
 fided to him his desire to serve with the Allied 
 armies. The old soldier, veteran of many bat- 
 tles, had sympathized with his ambition and 
 had procured for him the necessary informa- 
 tion concerning enlistment and training in 
 Canada. He was to go to New York and re- 
 port to a certain confidential agent there at an 
 address which had been given him, where he 
 would receive the necessary credentials for en- 
 listment in the new American Legion then in 
 process of formation. And Major Starbird
 
 214 THE FLAG 
 
 had said to him that when he returned, if at all, 
 his place at the mill would still be open to him 
 and he would be welcomed back. He told it 
 all with a quiet enthusiasm that evidenced not 
 only his fixed purpose, but also the fact that his 
 whole heart was in the adventure, and that 
 there would be no turning back. 
 
 And his mother gave her consent that he 
 should go. What else was there for her to do? 
 Mothers have sent their sons to war from time 
 immemorial. It is thus that they suffer and 
 bleed for their country. And who shall say 
 that their sacrifice is not as great in its way as 
 is the sacrifice of those who offer up their lives 
 in battle? But that night, through sleepless 
 hours, when she thought of the loneliness that 
 would be hers, and the hazards and horrors that 
 would be his, and of how, after all, he was such 
 a mere boy, to be petted and spoiled and kept 
 at home rather than to be sent out to meet the 
 trials and terrors of the most cruel war in his- 
 tory, her heart failed her, and she wept in un- 
 speakable dread. It is the women, in the long 
 run, who are the greater sufferers from the 
 armed clash of nations !
 
 THE FLAG 215 
 
 The mother who conceals her grief 
 
 While to her breast her son she presses, 
 Then breathes a few brave words and brief, 
 
 Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, 
 With no one but her secret God 
 
 To know the pain that weighs upon her, 
 Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod 
 
 Received on Freedom's field of honor ! 
 
 It was three days later that Pen went away. 
 There were many little matters to which he 
 must attend before going. His mother must 
 be safeguarded and her comfort looked after 
 during his absence. His own private affairs 
 must be left in such shape that in the event of 
 his not returning they could easily be closed 
 up. He permitted nothing to remain at loose 
 ends. But to no one save to his employer and 
 his mother did he confide his plans. He did not 
 care to publish a purpose that lay so near to 
 his heart. He went on the early morning 
 train. Major Starbird was at the station to 
 wring his hand and bid him God-speed and 
 wish him a safe return. But his mother was 
 not there. She was in her room at home, her 
 white face against the window, gazing with 
 tear- wet eyes toward the south. She heard the
 
 216 THE FLAG 
 
 distant rumble of the cars as they came, and the 
 blasts from the far away whistle fell softly on 
 her ears. And, by and by, the ever lengthen- 
 ing and fading line of smoke against the far 
 horizon told her that the train bearing her only 
 child to unknown and possibly dreadful des- 
 tiny was on its way. 
 
 Pen had been in New York before. On sev- 
 eral memorable occasions, as a boy, he had ac- 
 companied his grandfather Butler to the city 
 and had enjoyed the sights and sounds of the 
 great metropolis, and had learned something 
 of its ways and byways. He had no difficulty, 
 therefore, in finding the address that had been 
 given him by Major Starbird, and, having 
 found it, he was made welcome there. He 
 learned, what indeed he already knew, that 
 Canada was not averse to filling out her quota 
 of loyal troops for the great war by enlisting 
 and training young men of good character and 
 robust physique from the States. Armed with 
 confidential letters of introduction and com- 
 mendation, and certain other requisite docu- 
 ments, he left the quiet office on the busy street 
 feeling that at last the desire of his heart was
 
 THE FLAG 217 
 
 to be fully gratified. It was now late after- 
 noon. He was to take a night train from the 
 Grand Central station which would carry him 
 by way of Albany to Toronto. Borne along 
 by the crowd of home-going people he found 
 himself on Broadway facing Trinity Church. 
 The dusk of evening was already falling, and 
 here and there the glow of electric lamps began 
 to pierce the gloom. On one occasion he had 
 wandered, with his grandfather, through Trin- 
 ity Churchyard, and had read and been thrilled 
 by inscriptions on ancient tomb-stones marking 
 the graves of those who had served their coun- 
 try well in her early and struggling years. 
 Had it been still day he would not have been 
 able to resist the impulse to repeat that experi- 
 ence of his boyhood. As it was, he stood, for 
 many minutes, peering through the iron rail- 
 ing that separated the living, hurrying throngs 
 on the pavement from the narrow homes of 
 those who, more than a century before, had 
 served their generation by the will of God and 
 had fallen on sleep. 
 
 As he turned his eyes away from the deepen- 
 ing shadows of the graveyard it occurred to
 
 218 THE FLAG 
 
 him that he would go to a hotel formerly fre- 
 quented by Colonel Butler, and get his dinner 
 there before going to the train. It would seem 
 like old times, for it was there that they had 
 stayed when he had accompanied his grandfa- 
 ther on those trips of his boyhood. To be sure 
 the colonel would not be there, but delightful 
 memories would be stirred by revisiting the 
 place, and he felt that those memories would be 
 most welcome this night. 
 
 Ever more and more, in these latter days, his 
 thoughts had turned toward his boyhood home. 
 After six years of absence and estrangement 
 there was still no tenderer spot in his heart, 
 save the one occupied by his mother, than the 
 spot in which reposed his memories of his child- 
 hood's hero, the master of Bannerhall. He 
 wished that there might have been a reconcilia- 
 tion between them before he went to war. He 
 would have given much if only he could have 
 seen the stern face with its gray moustache and 
 its piercing eyes, if he could have felt the warm 
 grasp of the hand, if he could have heard the 
 firm and kindly voice speak to him one word 
 of farewell and Godspeed. He sighed as he
 
 THE FLAG 219 
 
 turned in at the subway kiosk and descended 
 the steps to the platform to join the pushing 
 and the jostling crowd on its homeward way. 
 At the Grand Central Station he procured his 
 railway tickets and checked his baggage and 
 
 / fJO C7 
 
 then came out into Forty-second street. 
 After a few minutes of bewildered turning he 
 located himself and made his way without fur- 
 ther trouble to his hotel. But the place seemed 
 strange to him now ; not as spacious as when he 
 was a boy, not as ornate, not as wonderful. 
 It was only after he had eaten his dinner and 
 come out again into the lobby that it took on 
 any kind of a familiar air, and not until he 
 was ready to depart that he could have im- 
 agined the erect form of Colonel Butler, with 
 its imposing and attractive personality, ap- 
 proaching him through the crowd as he had so 
 often seen it in other years. 
 
 Then, as he turned toward the street door, 
 a strange thing happened. A familiar figure 
 emerged from a side corridor and came out into 
 the main lobby in full view of the departing 
 boy. It needed no second glance to convince 
 Pen that this was indeed his grandfather. The
 
 220 THE FLAG 
 
 stern face, the white, drooping moustache, the 
 still soldierly bearing, could belong to no one 
 else. The colonel stopped for a minute to 
 make inquiry and obtain information from a 
 hotel attendant, then, having apparently 
 learned what he wished to know, he stood look- 
 ing searchingly about him. 
 
 Pen stood still in his tracks and wondered 
 what he should do. The vision had come upon 
 him so suddenly that it had quite taken away 
 his breath. But it did not take long for him 
 to decide. He would do the obvious and manly 
 thing and let the consequences take care of 
 themselves. He stepped forward and held out 
 his hand. 
 
 "How do you do, grandfather," he said. 
 
 Colonel Butler turned an unrecognizing 
 glance on the boy. 
 
 "You have the advantage of me, sir," he re- 
 plied. "I" 
 
 He stopped speaking suddenly, his face 
 flushed, and a look of glad surprise came into 
 his eyes. 
 
 "Why, Penfield!" he exclaimed, "is this 
 you?"
 
 THE FLAG 221 
 
 But, before Pen had time to respond, either 
 by word or movement, to the greeting, the old 
 man's gloved hand which had been thrust partly 
 forward, fell back to his side, the light of rec- 
 ognition left his eyes, and he stood, as stern- 
 faced and determined as he had stood on that 
 February night, years ago, asking about a boy 
 and a flag. 
 
 "Yes, grandfather," said Pen, "it is I." 
 
 The colonel did not turn away, nor did any 
 harsh word come to his lips. He spoke with 
 cold courtesy, as he might have spoken to any 
 casual acquaintance. 
 
 "This is a surprise, sir. I had not expected 
 to see you here." 
 
 He made a brave effort to control his voice, 
 but it trembled in spite of him. 
 
 Pen's heart was stirred with sudden pity. 
 He saw as he looked on his grandfather's face, 
 that age and sorrow had made sad inroads dur- 
 ing these few years. The hair and moustache, 
 iron-gray before, were now completely white, 
 the countenance was deep-lined and sallow, the 
 eyes had lost their piercing brightness. But 
 Pen did not permit his surprise, or his sorrow,
 
 222 THE FLAG 
 
 or his grief at the manner of his reception, to 
 show itself by any word or look. 
 
 "Nor did I expect to see you," he said. 
 "Have you been long in the city?" 
 
 "I arrived less than an hour ago. I expect 
 to meet here my friend Colonel Marshall with 
 whom I shall discuss the state of the coun- 
 try." 
 
 "Did did you come alone?" 
 
 It was the wrong thing to say, and Pen 
 knew it the moment he had said it. But the 
 old man's appearance of feebleness had aroused 
 in him the sudden thought that he ought not 
 to be traveling alone, and, impulsive!}', he had 
 given expression to the thought. Colonel 
 Butler straightened his shoulders and turned 
 upon his grandson a look of fine scorn. 
 
 "I came alone, sir," he replied. "How else 
 did you expect me to come?" 
 
 "Why, I thought possibly Aunt Milly might 
 have come along." 
 
 "In troublous times like these the woman's 
 place is at the fire-side. The man's duty 
 should lead him wherever his country calls, or 
 wherever he can be of service to a people de-
 
 THE FLAG 223 
 
 fending themselves against the onslaught of 
 armed autocracy." 
 
 "Yes, grandfather." 
 
 "I am therefore here to take counsel with 
 certain men of judgment concerning the par- 
 ticipation of this country in the bloody strug- 
 gle that is going on abroad. After that I shall 
 proceed to Washington to urge upon the heads 
 of our government my belief that the time is 
 ripe to throw the weight of our influence, and 
 the weight of our wealth, and the weight of 
 our armies, into the scale with France and 
 Great Britain for the subjugation of those cen- 
 tral powers that are waging upon these gallant 
 countries a most unjust and unrighteous 
 war." 
 
 "Yes, grandfather; I agree with you." 
 
 "Of course you do, sir. No right-minded 
 man could fail to agree with me. And I shall 
 tender my sword and my services, to be at the 
 disposal of my country, in whatever branch of 
 the service the Secretary of War may see fit to 
 assign me as soon as war is declared. As a 
 matter of fact, sir, we are already at war with 
 Germany. Both by land and sea she has, for
 
 224 THE FLAG 
 
 the last year, been making open war upon our 
 commerce, on our citizens, on the integrity of 
 our government. It is exasperating, sir, ex- 
 asperating beyond measure, to see the authori- 
 ties at Washington drifting aimlessly and un- 
 preparedly into an armed conflict which is 
 bound to come. Our president should demand 
 from congress at once a declaration that a state 
 of war exists with Germany, and with that de- 
 claration should go a system of organized pre- 
 paredness, and then, sir, we should go to Europe 
 and fight, and, thus fighting, help our Allies 
 and save our native land. It shall be my er- 
 rand to Washington to urge such an aggres- 
 
 sive course." 
 
 Of his belief in his theory there could be no 
 doubt. Of his earnestness in advocating it 
 there was not the slightest question. His pro- 
 found sympathy with the Allies did credit to 
 his heart as well as his judgment. And the 
 devotion of this one-armed and enfeebled vet- 
 eran to the cause of his own country, his eager- 
 ness to serve her in the field and his confidence 
 in his ability still to do so, were pathetic as well 
 as inspiring. It was all so big, and patriotic,
 
 THE FLAG 225 
 
 and splendid, even in its childish egotism and 
 simplicity, that the pure absurdity of it found 
 no place in the mind of this affectionate and 
 manly-hearted boy. 
 
 "I believe you are right, grandfather," he 
 said, "and it's noble of you to offer your ser- 
 vices that way." 
 
 "Thank you, sir!" 
 
 The colonel turned as if to move toward the 
 information desk at the office, and then turned 
 back. 
 
 "Pardon me!" he said, "but I forgot to in- 
 quire concerning your own errand in the 
 city." 
 
 "I am on my way to Canada, grandfather." 
 
 A look of surprise came into the old man's 
 eyes, followed at once by an expression of in- 
 finite scorn. He remembered that, in the days 
 of the civil war, slackers and rebel sympathizers 
 who wished to evade the draft made their way 
 across the national border into Canada. They 
 had received the contempt of their own genera- 
 tion and had drawn a figurative bar-sinister 
 across the shield of their descendants. Could 
 it be possible that this grandchild of his was
 
 226 THE FLAG 
 
 about to add disgrace to disloyalty? That, in 
 addition to heaping insults on the flag of his 
 country as a boy, he was now, as a man, taking 
 time by the forelock and escaping to the old 
 harbor of safety to avoid some possible future 
 conscription? The absurdity and impractica- 
 bility of such a proposition did not occur to him 
 at the moment, only the humiliation and the 
 horror of it. 
 
 "To Canada, sir?" he demanded; "the refuge 
 of cowards and copperheads! Why to Can- 
 ada, sir, in the face of this impending crisis in 
 your country's affairs?" 
 
 His voice rose at the end in angry protest. 
 The look of scorn that blazed from under his 
 gray eye-brows was withering in its intensity. 
 Pen, who was sufficiently familiar with the his- 
 tory of the civil war to know what lay in his 
 grandfather's mind, answered quickly but 
 quietly : 
 
 "I am going to Canada to enlist." 
 
 "To to what? Enlist?" 
 
 "Yes; in the American Legion; to fight un- 
 der the Union Jack in France." 
 
 A pillar stood near by, and the colonel
 
 THE FLAG 227 
 
 backed up against it for support. The shock 
 of the surprise, the sudden revulsion of feel- 
 ing, left him nerveless. 
 
 "And you you are going to war?" 
 
 He could not quite believe it yet. He 
 wanted confirmation. 
 
 "Yes, grandfather; I'm going to war. I 
 couldn't stay out of it. Until my own coun- 
 try takes up arms I'll fight under another flag. 
 When she does get into it I hope to fight under 
 the Stars and Stripes." 
 
 A wonderful look came into the old man's 
 face, a look of pride, of satisfaction, of unadul- 
 terated joy. His mouth twitched as though 
 he desired to speak and could not. Then, sud- 
 denly, he thrust out his one arm and seized 
 Pen's hand in a mighty and affectionate grip. 
 In that moment the sorrow, the bitterness, the 
 estrangement of years vanished, never to re- 
 turn. 
 
 "I am proud of you, sir!" he said. "You 
 are worthy of your illustrious ancestors. You 
 are maintaining the best traditions of Banner- 
 hall." 
 
 "I'm glad you're pleased, grandfather."
 
 228 THE FLAG 
 
 "Pleased is too mild an expression. I am 
 rejoiced. It is the proudest moment of my 
 life." He stepped away from the pillar, 
 straightened his shoulders, and gazed benig- 
 nantly on his grandson. "Not that I especially 
 desire," he added after a moment, "that you 
 should be subjected to the hazards and the 
 hardships of a soldier's life. That goes with- 
 out saying. But it is the hazards and the hard- 
 ships he faces that make the soldier a hero. 
 Death itself has no terrors for the patriotic 
 brave. 'Dulce et decorum est pro patria 
 mori' " 
 
 His eyes wandered away into some alluring 
 distance and his thought into the fields of mem- 
 ory, and for a moment he was silent. Nor did 
 Pen speak. He felt that the occasion was too 
 momentous, the event too sacred to be spoiled 
 by unnecessary words from him. 
 
 It was the colonel who at last broke the 
 silence. 
 
 "It is not an opportune time," he said, "to 
 speak of the past. But, as to the future, you 
 may rest in confidence. While you are absent 
 your mother shall be looked after. Her every
 
 THE FLAG 229 
 
 want shall be supplied. It will be my delight 
 to attend to the matter personally." 
 
 Swift tears sprang to Pen's eyes. Surely 
 the beautiful, the tender side of life was again 
 turning toward him. It was with difficulty 
 that he was able sufficiently to control his voice 
 to reply: 
 
 "Thank you, grandfather! You are very 
 good to us." 
 
 "Do not mention it! How about your own 
 wants? Have you money sufficient to carry 
 you to your destination?" 
 
 "Thank you! I have all the money I 
 need." 
 
 "Very well. I shall communicate with you 
 later, and see that you lack nothing for your 
 comfort. Will you kindly send me your ad- 
 dress when you are permanently located in 
 your training camp?" 
 
 "Yes, I will." 
 
 Pen glanced at his watch and saw that he 
 had but a few minutes left in which to catch 
 his train. 
 
 "I'm sorry, grandfather," he said, "but when 
 I met you I was just starting for the station to
 
 230 THE FLAG 
 
 take my train north ; and now, if I don't hurry, 
 I'll get left." 
 
 He held out his hand and the old man 
 grasped it anew. 
 
 "Penfield, my boy;" his voice was firm and 
 brave as he spoke. "Penfield, my boy, quit 
 yourself like the man that you are! Remem- 
 ber whose blood courses in your veins! Re- 
 member that you are an American citizen and 
 be proud of it. Farewell!" 
 
 He parted his white moustache, bent over, 
 pressed a kiss upon his grandson's forehead, 
 swung him about to face the door, and watched 
 his form as he retreated. When he turned 
 again he found his friend, Colonel Marshall, 
 standing at his side. 
 
 "I have just bidden farewell," he said 
 proudly, "to my grandson, Master Penfield 
 Butler, who is leaving on the next train for 
 Canada where he will go into training with the 
 American Legion, and eventually fight under 
 the Union Jack, on the war-scarred fields of 
 France." 
 
 "He is a brave and patriotic boy," replied 
 Colonel Marshall.
 
 THE FLAG 231 
 
 "It is in his blood and breeding, sir. No 
 Butler of my line was ever yet a coward, or ever 
 failed to respond to a patriotic call." 
 
 And as for Pen, midnight found him speed- 
 ing northward with a heart more full and grate- 
 ful, and a purpose more splendidly fixed, than 
 his life had ever before known.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 IT was late in the day following his depar- 
 ture from New York that Pen reached his des- 
 tination in Canada. In a certain suburban 
 town not far from Toronto he found a great 
 training camp. It was here that selected units 
 of the new Dominion armies received their mili- 
 tary instruction prior to being sent abroad. It 
 was here also that many of the young men from 
 the States, desirous of righting under the 
 Union Jack, came to enlist with the Canadian 
 troops and to receive their first lessons in the 
 science of warfare. Canada was stirred as she 
 had never been stirred before in all her history. 
 Her troops already at the front had received 
 their first great baptism of fire at Langemarck. 
 They had fought desperately, they had won 
 splendidly, but their losses had been appalling. 
 So the young men of Canada, eager to avenge 
 the slaughter of their countrymen, were has- 
 tening to fill the depleted ranks, and the young
 
 THE FLAG 233 
 
 men from the States were proud to bear them 
 company. 
 
 But life in the training camps was no holi- 
 day. It was hard, steady, strenuous business, 
 carried on under the most rigid form of dis- 
 cipline. Yet the men were well clothed, well 
 fed, had comfortable quarters, enjoyed regu- 
 lar periods of recreation, and were content with 
 their lot, save that their eagerness to complete 
 their training and get to the firing line inevi- 
 tably manifested itself in expressions of im- 
 patience. 
 
 To get up at 5 :30 in the morning and drill 
 for an hour before breakfast was no great task, 
 nor two successive hours of fighting with tipped 
 bayonets, nor throwing of real bombs and 
 hand-grenades, nor was the back-breaking dig- 
 ging of trenches, nor the exhaustion from long 
 marches, if only by such experiences they could 
 fit themselves eventually to fight their enemy 
 not only with courage but also with that skill 
 and efficiency which counts for so much in 
 modern warfare. 
 
 It was ten days after Pen's enlistment that, 
 being off duty, he crossed the parade ground
 
 234 THE FLAG 
 
 one evening and went into the large reading 
 and recreation room of the Young Men's Chris- 
 tian Association, established and maintained 
 there for the benefit of the troops in training. 
 He had no errand except that he wished to 
 write a letter to his mother, and the conven- 
 iences offered made it a favorite place for let- 
 ter writing. 
 
 There were few people in the room, for it was 
 still early, and the writing tables were compara- 
 tively unoccupied. But at one of them, with 
 his back to the entrance, sat a young man in 
 uniform busy with his correspondence. Pen 
 glanced at him casually as he sat down to write ; 
 his quarter face only was visible. But the 
 glance had left an impression on his mind that 
 the face and figure were those of some one he 
 had at some time known. He selected his 
 writing paper and took up a pen, but the feel- 
 ing within him that he must look again and 
 see if he could possibly recognize his comrade 
 in arms was too strong to be resisted. Appar- 
 ently the feeling was mutual, for when Pen 
 did turn his eyes in the direction of the other 
 visitor, he found that the young man had
 
 THE FLAG 235 
 
 ceased writing, and was sitting erect in his 
 chair and looking squarely at him. It needed 
 no second glance to convince him that his com- 
 panion was none other than Aleck Sands. For 
 a moment there was an awkward pause. It 
 was apparent that the recognition was mutual, 
 but it was apparent also that in the shock of 
 surprise neither boy knew quite what to do. 
 It was Aleck who made the first move. He 
 rose, crossed the room to where Pen was sit- 
 ting, and held out his hand. 
 
 "Pen," he said, "are you willing to shake 
 hands with me now? You know I was dog 
 enough once to refuse a like offer from 
 you." 
 
 "I'm not only willing but glad to, if you 
 want to let bygones be bygones." 
 
 "I'll agree to that if you will agree to for- 
 give me for what I've done against you and 
 against the flag." 
 
 "What you've done against the flag?" 
 
 Pen was staring at him in surprise. When 
 had the burden of that guilt been shifted? 
 
 "Yes, I," answered Aleck. "I did far more 
 against the flag that day at Chestnut Hill than
 
 236 THE FLAG 
 
 you ever thought of doing. I haven't realized 
 it until lately, but now that I do know it, I'm 
 trying in every way I possibly can to make it 
 right." 
 
 "Why, you didn't trample on it, nor speak 
 of it disrespectfully, nor refuse to apologize to 
 it; it was I who did all that." 
 
 "I know, but I dogged you into it. If I 
 myself had paid proper respect to the flag you 
 would never have got into that trouble. Pen, 
 I never did a more unpatriotic, contemptible 
 thing in my life than I did when I wrapped 
 that flag around me and dared you to molest 
 me. It was a cowardly use to make of the 
 Stars and Stripes. Moreover, I did it delib- 
 erately, and you you acted on the impulse of 
 the moment. It was I who committed the real 
 fault, and it has been you who have suffered 
 for it." 
 
 "Well, I gave you a pretty good punching, 
 didn't I?" 
 
 "Yes, but the punching you gave me was 
 not a thousandth part of what I deserved ; and, 
 if you think it would even matters up any, I'd 
 be perfectly willing to stand up tonight and
 
 THE FLAG 237 
 
 let you knock me down a dozen times. Since 
 this war came on I've despised myself more 
 than I can tell you for my treatment of the 
 flag that day, and for my treatment of you 
 ever since." 
 
 That he was in dead earnest there could be 
 no doubt. Phlegmatic and conservative by 
 nature, when he was once roused he was not 
 easily suppressed. Pen began to feel sorry 
 for him. 
 
 "You're too hard on yourself," he said. "I 
 think you did make a mistake that day, so did 
 I. But we were both kids, and in a way we 
 were irresponsible." 
 
 "Yes, I know. There's something in that, 
 to be sure. But that doesn't excuse me for 
 letting the thing go as I got older and knew 
 better, and letting you bear all the blame and 
 all the punishment, and never lifting a finger 
 to try to help you out. That was mean and 
 contemptible." 
 
 "Well, it's all over now, so forget it." 
 
 "But I haven't been able to forget it. I've 
 thought of it night and day for a year. A 
 dozen times I've started to hunt you up and
 
 238 THE FLAG 
 
 tell you what I'm telling you to-night, and 
 every time I've backed out. I couldn't bear 
 to face the music. And when I heard that 
 they turned you down when you tried to enlist 
 in the Guard at Lowbridge, on account of the 
 old trouble, that capped the climax. I couldn't 
 stand it any longer; I felt that I had to shoul- 
 der my part of that burden somehow, and that 
 the very best way for me to do it was to go 
 and fight; and if I couldn't fight under my 
 own flag, then to go and fight under the next 
 best flag, the Union Jack. I felt that after 
 I'd had my baptism of fire I'd have the face 
 and courage to go to you and tell you what 
 I've been telling you now. But I'm glad it's 
 over. My soul! I'm glad it's over!" 
 
 He dropped into a chair by the table and 
 rested his head on his open hand as though the 
 recital of his story had exhausted him. Pen 
 stood over him and laid a comforting arm about 
 his shoulder. 
 
 "It's all right, old man!" he said. "You've 
 done the fair thing, and a great lot more. 
 Now let's call quits and talk about something 
 else. When did you come up here?"
 
 THE FLAG 239 
 
 "Five days ago. I'm just getting into the 
 swing." 
 
 "Well, you're exactly the right sort. I'm 
 mighty glad you're here. We'll fix it so we 
 can be in the same company, and bunk to- 
 gether. What do you say?" 
 
 "Splendid! if you're willing. Can it be 
 done? I'm in company M of the th Bat- 
 talion." 
 
 "I know of the same thing having been done 
 since I've been here. We'll try it on, any- 
 way." 
 
 They did try it on, and three days later the 
 transfer was made. After that they were 
 comrades indeed, occupying the same quarters, 
 marching shoulder to shoulder with each other 
 in the ranks, sharing with each other all the 
 comforts and privations of life in the barracks, 
 moved by a common impulse of patriotism and 
 chivalry, longing for the day to come when 
 they could prove their mettle under fire. 
 
 But it was not until February 1916 that 
 they went abroad. After three months of in- 
 tensive training they were hardened, supple, 
 and skillful. But their military education was
 
 240 THE FLAG 
 
 not yet complete. Commanders of armies 
 know that raw or semi-raw troops are worse 
 than useless in modern warfare. Soldiers in 
 these days must know their business thoroughly 
 if they are to meet an enemy on equal terms. 
 They must be artisans as well as soldiers, la- 
 borers as well as riflemen, human machines 
 compounded of blood and courage. 
 
 So, in a great camp not far from London, 
 there were three months more of drill and dis- 
 cipline and drastic preparation for the firing 
 line. 
 
 But at last, in late May, when the young 
 grass was green on England's lawns, and the 
 wings of birds were flashing everywhere in the 
 sunshine, and nature was rioting in leaf and 
 flower, a troop-ship, laden to the gunwales 
 with the finest and the best of Canada's young 
 patriots and many of the most stalwart youth 
 of the States, landed on the welcoming shore 
 of France. In England evidences of the great 
 war had been marked, abundant and harrow- 
 ing. But here, in the country whose soil had 
 been invaded, the grim and stirring actualities 
 of the mighty conflict were brought home to
 
 THE FLAG 241 
 
 the onlooker with startling distinctness. At 
 the railroad station, where the troops entrained 
 for the front, every sight and sound was elo- 
 quent with the tenseness of preparation and 
 the tragedy of the long fight. Soldiers were 
 everywhere. Coats of blue, trousers of red, 
 jackets of green, gave color and variety to 
 the prevailing mass of sober khaki. Here too, 
 dotting the hurrying throng, were the pathetic 
 figures of the stricken and wounded, haggard, 
 bandaged, limping, maimed, on canes and 
 crutches, back from the front, released from 
 the hospitals, seeking the rest and quiet that 
 their sacrifices and heroism had so well earned. 
 And here too, ministering to the needs of the 
 suffering and the helpless, were many of the 
 white-robed nurses of the Red Cross. 
 
 It was evening when the train bearing the 
 first section of the th Battalion of Canadian 
 Light Infantry to which Pen and Aleck be- 
 longed steamed slowly out of the station. All 
 night, in the darkness, across the fields and 
 through the fine old forests of northern France 
 the slow rumble of the coaches, interrupted by 
 many stops, kept up. But in the gray of
 
 242 THE FLAG 
 
 the early morning, a short distance beyond 
 Amiens, in the midst of a mist covered meadow, 
 the train pulled up for the last time. This had 
 been fighting ground. Here the invading 
 hosts of Germany had been met and driven 
 back. Ruined farm houses, shattered trees, 
 lines of old trenches scarring the surface of 
 the meadow, all told their eloquent tale of ruth- 
 less and devastating war. And yonder, in the 
 valley, the slow-moving Somme wound its 
 shadowy way between green banks and over- 
 hanging foliage as peacefully and beautifully 
 as though its silent waters had never been 
 flecked with the blood of dying men. Even 
 now, as the troops detrained and marched to 
 the sections of the field assigned them, the dull 
 and continuous roar of cannon in the distance 
 came to their ears with menacing distinctness. 
 
 "It's the thunder of the guns!" exclaimed 
 Pen. "I hope to-morrow finds us where 
 they're firing them." 
 
 "I'm with you," responded Aleck. "I shall 
 be frightened to death when they first put me 
 under fire, but the sooner I'm hardened to it 
 the better."
 
 THE FLAG 243 
 
 "Tut! You'll be as brave as a lion. It's 
 your kind that wins battles." 
 
 Pen turned his face toward a horizon lost 
 in a haze of smoke, and the look in his eyes 
 showed that he at least, would be no coward 
 when the supreme moment came. Lieutenant 
 Davis of their company strolled by ; impatiently 
 waiting for further orders. He was a strict 
 disciplinarian indeed, but he was very human 
 and his men all loved him. Pen pointed in the 
 direction from which came the muffled sounds 
 of warfare. 
 
 "When shall we be there, Lieutenant?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "I don't know, Butler," was the response. 
 "It may be to-morrow; it may be next month. 
 Only those in high command know and they're 
 not telling. We may camp right here fop 
 weeks." 
 
 But they did not camp there. In the early 
 evening there came marching orders, and, un- 
 der cover of darkness, the entire battalion 
 swung into a muddy and congested road and 
 tramped along it for many hours. But they 
 got no nearer to the fighting line. Weary,
 
 244 THE FLAG 
 
 hungry and thirsty, they stopped at last on 
 the face of a gently sloping hill protected from 
 the north by a forest which had not yet suffered 
 destruction either at the hands of sappers or 
 from the violence of shells. It was apparent 
 that this had been a camp for a large body of 
 troops before the advancement of the lines. 
 It was deserted now, but there were many 
 caves in the hillside, and hundreds of little 
 huts made of earth and wood under the 
 sheltering trunks and branches of the trees. 
 It was in one of these huts that Pen and Aleck, 
 together with four of their comrades, were bil- 
 leted. It was not long after their arrival be- 
 fore hastily built fires were burning, and cof- 
 fee, hot and fragrant, was brewing, to refresh 
 the tired bodies of the men, until the arrival 
 of the provision trains should supply them with 
 a more substantial breakfast. There was 
 plenty of straw, however, and on that the 
 weary troops threw themselves down and 
 slept. 
 
 At this camp the battalion remained until 
 the middle of June. There were drills, inarch- 
 ing and battalion maneuvers by day, such
 
 THE FLAG 245 
 
 recreation in the evenings as camp life could 
 afford, sound sleeping on beds of straw at 
 night, and always, from the distance, some- 
 times loud and continuous, sometimes faint and 
 occasional, the thunder of the guns. And al- 
 ways, too, along the muddy high-road at the 
 foot of the slope, a never-ending procession of 
 provision and munition trains laboring toward 
 the front, and the human wreckage of the firing 
 line, and troops released from the trenches, 
 passing painfully to the rear. No wonder the 
 men grew impatient and longed for the activi- 
 ties of the front even though their ears were 
 ever filled with tales of horror from the lips 
 of those who had survived the ordeal of battle. 
 But, soon after the middle of June, their 
 desires were realized. Orders came to break 
 camp and prepare to march, to what point 
 no one seemed to know, but every one hoped 
 and expected it would be to the trenches. 
 There was a day of bustle and hurry. The 
 men stocked up their haversacks, filled their 
 canteens and cartridge-boxes, put their guns 
 in complete readiness, and at five o'clock in the 
 afternoon were assembled and began their
 
 246 THE FLAG 
 
 march. The road was ankle-deep with mud, 
 for there had been much rain, and it was con- 
 gested with endless convoys. There were 
 many delays. A heavy mist fell and added to 
 the uncertainty, the weariness and discomfort. 
 But no complaint escaped from any man's 
 lips, for they all felt that at last they were 
 going into action. Four hours of marching 
 brought them into the neighborhood of the Brit- 
 ish heavy artillery concealed under branches 
 broken from trees or in mud huts, directing 
 their fire on the enemy's lines by the aid of 
 signals from lookouts far in advance or in the 
 air. The noise of these big guns was terrific, 
 but inspiring. At nine o'clock there was a 
 halt of sufficient length to serve the men with 
 coffee and bread, and then the march was re- 
 sumed. By and by shells from the guns of 
 the Allies began to shriek high over the heads 
 of the marching men, and were replied to by 
 the enemy shells humming and whining by, 
 seeking out and endeavoring to silence the 
 Allied artillery. Now and then one of these 
 missiles would burst in the rear of the column, 
 sending up a glare of flame and a cloud of dust
 
 THE FLAG 247 
 
 and debris, but at what cost in life no one in the 
 line knew. 
 
 As the men advanced the mud grew deeper, 
 the way narrower, the congestion greater. 
 The passing of enemy shells was less frequent, 
 but precautions for safety were increased. Ad- 
 vantage was taken of ravines, of fences, of 
 fourth and fifth line trenches. The troops 
 were not beyond range of the German sharp- 
 shooters, and the swish of bullets was heard oc- 
 casionally in the air above the heads of the 
 marchers. 
 
 It was toward morning that the destination 
 of the column was reached, and, in single file, 
 the men of Pen's section passed down an incline 
 into their first communicating trench, and then 
 past a maze of lateral trenches to the opening 
 into the salients they were to supply. It was 
 here that the soldiers whom they were to re- 
 lieve filed out by them. Going forward, they 
 took the places of the retiring section. At last 
 they were in the first line trench, with the 
 enemy trenches scarcely a hundred meters in 
 front of them. Sentries were placed at the 
 loop-holes made in the earth embankment, and
 
 248 THE FLAG 
 
 the remainder of the section retired to their 
 dug-outs. These under-ground rooms, built 
 down and out from the trench, and bomb-proof, 
 were capable of holding from eight to a 
 dozen men. They were carpeted with straw, 
 some of them had shelves, and in many of them 
 discarded bayonets were driven into the walls 
 to form hooks. It was in these places that 
 the men who were off duty rested and ate and 
 slept. 
 
 In the gray light of the early June morning, 
 Pen, who had been posted at one of the loop- 
 holes as a listening sentry, looked out to see 
 what lay in front of him. But the most that 
 could be seen were the long and winding earth 
 embankments that marked the lines of the Ger- 
 man entrenchments, and between, on "no man's 
 land," a maze of barbed wire entanglements. 
 No living human being was in sight, but, at 
 one place, crumpled up, partly sustained by 
 meshes of wire, there was a ragged heap, the 
 sight of which sent a chill to the boy's heart. 
 It required no second glance to discover that 
 this was the unrescued body of a soldier who 
 had been too daring. Pen had seen his first
 
 THE FLAG 249 
 
 war-slain corpse. Indeed, war was becoming 
 to him now a reality. For, suddenly, a little 
 of the soft earth at his side spattered into his 
 face. An enemy bullet had struck there. In 
 his eagerness to see he had exposed too much 
 of his head and shoulders and had become the 
 target for Boche sharpshooters. Other bul- 
 lets pattered down around his loop-hole, and 
 only by seeking the quick shelter of the trench 
 did he escape injury or death. It was his first 
 lesson in self -protection on the firing-line, but 
 he profited by it. Two hours later he and 
 Aleck, who had also been doing duty on a look- 
 out platform, were relieved by their comrades, 
 and threw themselves down on the straw of 
 their dug-out and, wearied to the point of ex- 
 haustion, slept soundly. With the dawning of 
 day the noise of cannonading increased, the 
 whining of deadly missiles grew more inces- 
 sant, the crash of exploding shells more fre- 
 quent, but, until they were roused by their ser- 
 geant and bidden to eat their breakfast which 
 had been brought by a ration-party, both boys 
 slept. So soon had the menacing sounds of 
 war become familiar to their ears. After
 
 250 THE FLAG 
 
 breakfast those who were not on sentry duty 
 were put to work repairing trenches, filling 
 sand-bags, enlarging dugouts, pumping water 
 from low places, cleaning rifles, performing a 
 hundred tasks which were necessary to make 
 trench life endurable and reasonably safe. 
 The food was good and was still abundant. 
 There were fresh meat, bacon, canned soups 
 and vegetables, bread, butter, jam and coffee. 
 The two hours on sentry duty were by far the 
 most strenuous in the daily routine. To re- 
 main in one position, with eyes glued to the 
 narrow slit in the embankment, gas mask at 
 hand, hand-grenades in readiness, rifle in posi- 
 tion ready to be discharged on the second, the 
 fate of the whole army perhaps resting on one 
 man's vigilance, this was no easy task. 
 
 But there were no complaints. The men 
 were on the firing line, ready to obey orders, 
 whatever they might be; they asked only one 
 thing more, and that was to fight. But, in 
 these days, there was a lull in the actual fight- 
 ing. The "big drive" had not yet been 
 launched. Aside from a skirmish now and 
 then, a fierce bombardment for a few hours,
 
 THE FLAG 251 
 
 an attempt, on one side or the other, to rush a 
 trench, there was little aggressive warfare in 
 this neighborhood, and few casualties ; nor was 
 there any material variance in the front lines 
 of trenches on either side. There were six 
 days of this kind of duty and then the men of 
 Pen's company were relieved and sent to the 
 rear for a week's rest, to act as reserves, and 
 to be called during that time only in case of 
 an emergency. But the following week saw 
 them again at the front ; not in the same trench 
 where they had first served, but in an advanced 
 position farther to the south. The trenches 
 here were not so roomy nor so dry as had been 
 those of the first assignment. There was much 
 mud, slippery and deep, to be contended with, 
 and the walls at the sides were continually cav- 
 ing in. The duties of the men, however, were 
 not materially different from those with which 
 they were already familiar. Clashes had been 
 more frequent here, and the dead bodies of 
 soldiers, crumpled up in the trench or lying, 
 unrescued, on the scarred and fire-swept sur- 
 face of "no man's land" were not an unusual 
 sight. But the "rookies" were becoming
 
 252 THE FLAG 
 
 hardened now to many of the horrors of war. 
 It was while they were in this trench that 
 Pen had his "baptism of fire." Late one after- 
 noon the German artillery began shelling 
 fiercely the first line of Allied trenches. Aleck 
 and Pen were both on sentry duty. Just be- 
 yond them Lieutenant Davis stood at an ad- 
 vanced lookout post intent on studying the 
 outside situation by means of his periscope. 
 At irregular intervals machine guns, deftly 
 hidden from the sight of the enemy, poked 
 their menacing mouths toward the Boche lines. 
 Now and then, finding its mark at some point 
 in the course of the winding trench, an enemy 
 shell would explode throwing clouds of dust 
 and debris into the air, wrecking the earth- 
 works where it fell, taking its toll of human 
 lives and limbs. Twice Pen was thrown off 
 his feet by the shock of near-by explosions, but 
 he escaped injury, as did also Aleck. It was 
 apparent that the Germans were either making 
 a feint for the purpose of attacking at some 
 unexpected point, or else that they were pre- 
 paring for a charge on the trenches which they 
 were bombarding. It developed that the latter
 
 THE FLAG 253 
 
 theory was the correct one, for, after a while, 
 they directed their fire to the rear of the first 
 line trenches, and set up a still more furious 
 bombardment. This, as eveiy one knew, was 
 for the purpose of preventing the British from 
 bringing up reinforcements, and to give their 
 own troops the opportunity to charge into the 
 Allied front. The charge was not long de- 
 layed. A gray wave poured over the parapet 
 of the German first line trench, rolled through 
 the prepared openings in their own barbed- 
 wire entanglements, and advanced, alternately 
 running and creeping, toward the Allied line. 
 But when the Germans were once in the open 
 a terrible thing happened to them. The ma- 
 chine guns from all along the British trenches 
 met them with a rain of bullets that mowed 
 them down as grain falls to the blades of the 
 farmer's reaper. The rifles of the men in 
 khaki, resting on the benches of the parapet, 
 spit constant and deadly fire at them. The ar- 
 tillery to the rear, in constant telephone touch 
 with the first line, quickly found the range and 
 dropped shells into the charging mass with ter- 
 rible effect. A second body of gray-clad sol-
 
 254 THE FLAG 
 
 diers with fixed bayonets swarmed out of the 
 German trenches and came to the help of their 
 hard-beset comrades, and met a similar fate. 
 Then a third platoon came on, and a fourth. 
 The resources of the enemy in men seemed 
 endless, their persistence remarkable, their 
 recklessness in the face of sure death almost 
 unbelievable. The noise was terrific; the con- 
 stant rattle of the machine guns, the spitting 
 of rifles, the booming of the artillery, the whin- 
 ing and crashing of shells, the yells of the 
 charging troops, the shrieks of the wounded. 
 In the British trenches the men were assembled, 
 ready to pour out at the whistle and repel the 
 assault on open ground; but it was not neces- 
 sary for them to do so. The German ranks, 
 unable to withstand the fire that devoured them 
 as they met it, a fire that it was humanly im- 
 possible for any troops to withstand, turned 
 back and sought the shelter of their trenches, 
 leaving their dead and wounded piled and 
 sprawled by the hundreds on the ground they 
 had failed to cross. 
 
 The casualties among the Canadian troops 
 were not large, and they had occurred mostly
 
 THE FLAG 255 
 
 before the charge had been launched, but it 
 was in deep sorrow that the men from across 
 the ocean gathered up from the shattered 
 trenches the pierced and broken bodies of their 
 comrades, and sent them to the rear, the living 
 to be cared for in the hospitals, the dead to be 
 buried on the soil of France where they had 
 bravely fought and nobly died.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE great Somme drive began on July 1, 
 1916, after a week's devastating bombardment 
 of the German lines. The enemy trenches had 
 been torn and shattered, and when the Allied 
 armies, in great numbers and with abundant 
 ammunition, swept out and down upon them, 
 the impetus and force of the advance were irre- 
 sistible. Trenches were blotted out. Towns 
 were taken. The German lines melted away 
 over wide areas. Victory, decisive and per- 
 manent, rested on the Allied banners. On the 
 third of the month the British took La Boiselle 
 and four thousand three hundred prisoners. 
 But on the fourth the enemy troops turned and 
 fought like wild animals at bay. This was the 
 day on which Aleck received his wounds. In 
 the morning, as they lay sprawled in a ravine 
 which had been captured the night before, wait- 
 ing for orders to push still farther on, Aleck 
 had said to Pen:
 
 THE FLAG 257 
 
 "You know what day this is, comrade?" 
 
 "Indeed I do!" was the reply, "it's Inde- 
 pendence Day." 
 
 "Right you are. I wish I could get sight 
 of an American flag. It will be the first time 
 in my life that I haven't seen 'Old Glory' some- 
 where on the Fourth of July." 
 
 "True. Back yonder in the States they'll 
 be having parades and speeches, and the flag 
 will be flying from every masthead. If only 
 they could be made to realize that it's really 
 that flag that we're fighting for, you and I, and 
 drop this cloak of neutrality, and come over 
 here as a nation and help us, wouldn't that be 
 glorious?" 
 
 Pen's face was grimy, his uniform was torn 
 and stained, his hair was tousled; somewhere 
 he had lost his cap and the times were too 
 strenuous to get another ; but out from his eyes 
 there shone a tenderness, a longing, a deter- 
 mination that marked him as a true soldier of 
 the American Legion. 
 
 The cannonading had again begun. Shells 
 were whining and whistling above their heads 
 and exploding in the enemy lines not far be-
 
 258 THE FLAG 
 
 yond. Off to the right, a village in flames sent 
 up great clouds of smoke, and the roar of the 
 conflagration was joined to the noise of artil- 
 lery. Back of the lines the ground was strewn 
 with wreckage, pitted with shell-holes, ghastly 
 with its harvest of bodies of the slain. With 
 rifles gripped, bayonets ready, hand grenades 
 near by, the boys lay waiting for the word of 
 command. 
 
 "Aleck?" 
 
 "Yes, comrade." 
 
 "Over yonder at Chestnut Hill, on the 
 school-grounds, the flag will be floating from 
 the top of the staff to-day." 
 
 "Yes, I know. It will be a pretty sight. I 
 used to be ashamed to look at it. You know 
 why. To-day I could stare at it and glory in 
 it for hours." 
 
 "That flag at the schoolhouse is the most 
 beautiful American flag in the world. I never 
 saw it but once, but it thrilled me then unspeak- 
 ably. I have loved it ever since. I can think 
 of but one other sight that would be more beau- 
 tiful and thrilling." 
 
 "And what is that?"
 
 THE FLAG 259 
 
 "To see 'Old Glory' waving from the top of 
 a flag-staff here on the soil of France, signify- 
 ing that our country has taken up the cause of 
 the Allies and thrown herself, with all her heart 
 and might into this war." 
 
 "Wait ; you will see it, comrade, you will see 
 it. It can't be delayed for long now." 
 
 Then the order came to advance. In a 
 storm of shrapnel, bullets and flame, the Brit- 
 ish host swept down again upon the foe. The 
 Germans gave desperate and deadly resistance. 
 They fought hand to hand, with bayonets and 
 clubbed muskets and grenades. It was a death 
 grapple, with decisive victory on neither side. 
 In the wild onrush and terrific clash, Pen lost 
 touch with his comrade. Only once he saw 
 him after the charge was launched. Aleck 
 waved to him and smiled and plunged into the 
 thick of the carnage. Two hours later, stag- 
 gering with shock and heat and superficial 
 wounds, and choking with thirst and the smoke 
 and dust of conflict, Pen made his way with the 
 survivors of his section back over the ground 
 that had been traversed, to find rest and re- 
 freshment at the rear. They had been relieved
 
 260 THE FLAG 
 
 by fresh troops sent in to hold the narrow strip 
 of territory that had been gained. Stumbling 
 along over the torn soil, through wreckage in- 
 describable, among dead bodies lying singly 
 and in heaps, stopping now and then to aid a 
 dying man, or give such comfort as he could 
 to a wounded and helpless comrade, Pen strug- 
 gled slowly and painfully toward a resting 
 spot. 
 
 At one place, through eyes half blinded by 
 sweat and smoke and trickling blood, he saw a 
 man partially reclining against a post to which 
 a tangled and broken mass of barbed wire was 
 still clinging. The man was evidently mak- 
 ing weak and ineffectual attempts to care for 
 his own wounds. Pen stopped to assist him if 
 he could. Looking down into his face he saw 
 that it was Aleck. He was not shocked, nor 
 did he manifest any surprise. He had seen too 
 much of the actuality of war to be startled now 
 by any sight or sound however terrible. He 
 simply said: 
 
 "Well, old man, I see they got you. Here, 
 let me help." 
 
 He knelt down by the side of his wounded
 
 THE FLAG 261 
 
 comrade, and, with shaking hands, endeavored 
 to staunch the flow of blood and to bind up two 
 dreadful wounds, a gaping, jagged hole in the 
 breast beneath the shoulder, made by the thrust 
 and twist of a Boche bayonet, and a torn and 
 shattered knee. 
 
 Aleck did not at first recognize him, but a 
 moment later, seeing who it was that had 
 stopped to help him, he reached up a trembling 
 hand and laid it on his friend's face. Some- 
 thing in his mouth or throat had gone wrong 
 and he could not speak. 
 
 After exhausting his comrade's emergency 
 kit and his own in first aid treatment of the 
 wounds, Pen called for assistance to a soldier 
 who was staggering by, and between them, 
 across the torn field with its crimson and 
 ghastly fruitage, with fragments of shrapnel 
 hurtling above them, and with bodies of sol- 
 diers, dead and living, tossed into the murky 
 air by constantly exploding shells, they half 
 carried, half dragged the wounded man across 
 the ravine and up the hill to a captured Ger- 
 man trench, and turned him over to the 
 stretcher-bearers to be taken to the ambulances.
 
 262 THE FLAG 
 
 It was after this day's fighting that Pen, 
 "for conspicuous bravery in action," was pro- 
 moted to the rank of sergeant. He wore his 
 honor modestly. It gave him, perhaps, a bet- 
 ter opportunity to do good work for Britain 
 and for France, and to rehabilitate himself in 
 the eyes of his own countrymen; otherwise it 
 did not matter. 
 
 So the fighting on the Somme went on day 
 after day, week after week, persistent, des- 
 perate, bloody. It was early in August, after 
 the terrific battle by which the whole of Delville 
 Wood passed into British control, that Pen's 
 battalion was relieved and sent far to the rear 
 for a long rest. Even unwounded men can- 
 not stand the strain of continuous battle for 
 many weeks at a stretch. The nervous sys- 
 tem, delicate and complicated, must have re- 
 lief, or the physical organization will collapse, 
 or the mind give way, or both. 
 
 At the end of the first night's march from 
 the front the battalion camped in the streets of 
 a little, half-wrecked village on the banks of 
 the Avre. Up on the hillside was a long, 
 rambling building which had once been a con-
 
 THE FLAG 263 
 
 vent but was now a hospital. Pen knew that 
 somewhere in a hospital back of the Somme 
 Aleck was still lying, too ill to be moved far- 
 ther to the rear. It occurred to him that he 
 might find him here. So, in the hazy moon- 
 light of the August evening, having obtained 
 the necessary leave, he set out to make inquiry. 
 He passed up the winding walk, under a 
 canopy of fine old trees, and reached the en- 
 trance to the building. From the porch, look- 
 ing to the north, toward the valley of the 
 Somme, he could see on the horizon the dull 
 gleam of red that marked the battle line, and 
 he could hear the faint reverberations of the 
 big guns that told of the fighting still in prog- 
 ress. But here it was very quiet, very peace- 
 ful, very beautiful. For the first time since 
 his entrance into the great struggle he longed 
 for an end of the strife, and a return to the 
 calm, sweet, lovely things of life. But he did 
 not permit this mood to remain long with him. 
 He knew that the war must go on until the 
 spirit that launched it was subdued and 
 crushed, and that he must go with it to what- 
 ever end God might will.
 
 264 THE FLAG 
 
 He found Aleck there. He had felt that 
 he would, and while he was delighted he was 
 not greatly surprised. There was little emo- 
 tion manifested at the meeting of the two boys. 
 The horrors of war were too close and too vivid 
 yet for that. But the fact that they were glad 
 to look again into one another's eyes admitted 
 of no douht. Aleck had recovered the use of 
 his voice, but he was still too weak to talk at 
 any length. The bayonet wound in his shoul- 
 der had healed nicely, but his shattered knee 
 had come terribly near to costing him his life. 
 There had been infection. Amputation of the 
 leg had been imminent. The surgeons and the 
 nurses had struggled with the case for weeks 
 and had finally conquered. 
 
 "I shall still have two legs," said Aleck 
 jocosely, "and I'll be glad of that; but I'm 
 afraid this one will be a weak brother for a 
 long time. I won't be kicking football this 
 fall, anyway." 
 
 "It's the fortune of war," replied Pen. 
 
 "I know. I'm not complaining, and I'm not 
 sorry. I've had my chance. I've seen war. 
 I've fought for France. I'm satisfied."
 
 THE FLAG 265 
 
 He lay back on the pillow, pale-faced, ema- 
 ciated, weak; but in his eyes was a glow of 
 patriotic pride in his own suffering, and pride 
 in the knowledge that he had entered the fight 
 and had fought bravely and well. 
 
 "America ought to be proud of you," said 
 Pen, "and of all the other boys from the States 
 who have fought and suffered, and of those 
 who have died in this war. I told you you'd 
 be no coward when the time came to fight, and, 
 my faith! you were not. I can see you now, 
 with a smile and a wave of the hand plunging 
 into that bloody chaos." 
 
 "Thank you, comrade! I may never fight 
 again, but I can go back home now and face 
 the flag and not be ashamed." 
 
 "Indeed, you can! And when will you 
 go?" 
 
 "I don't know. They'll take me across the 
 channel as soon as I'm able to leave here, and 
 then, when I can travel comfortably I suppose 
 I'll be invalided home." 
 
 "Well, old man, when you get there, you say 
 to my mother and my aunt Milly, and my dear 
 old grandfather Butler, that when you saw me
 
 266 THE FLAG 
 
 last I was well, and contented, and glad to be 
 doing my bit." 
 
 "I will, Pen." 
 
 "And, Aleck?" 
 
 "Yes, comrade." 
 
 "If you should chance to go by the school- 
 house, and see the old flag waving there, give it 
 one loving glance for me, will you?" 
 
 "With all my heart!" 
 
 "So, then, good-by!" 
 
 "Good-by!" 
 
 It was in the spacious grounds of an old 
 French chateau not far from Beauvais on the 
 river Andelle that Pen's battalion camped for 
 their period of rest and recuperation. There 
 were long, sunshiny days, nights of undisturbed 
 and refreshing sleep, recreation and entertain- 
 ment sufficient to divert tired brains, and a 
 freedom from undue restraint that was most 
 welcome. Moreover there were letters and 
 parcels from home, with plenty of time to read 
 them and to re-read them, to dwell upon them 
 and to enjoy them. If the loved ones back in 
 the quiet cities and villages and countryside 
 could only realize how much letters and parcels
 
 THE FLAG 267 
 
 from home mean to the tired bodies and 
 strained nerves of the war-worn boys at the 
 front, there would never be a lack of these com- 
 forts and enjoyments that go farther than any- 
 thing else to brighten the lives and hearten the 
 spirits of the soldier-heroes in the trenches and 
 the camps. 
 
 Pen had his full share of these pleasures. 
 His mother, his Aunt Millicent, Colonel But- 
 ler, and even Grandpa Walker from Cobb's 
 Corners, kept him supplied with news, admoni- 
 tion, encouragement and affection. And these 
 little waves of love and commendation, rolling 
 up to him at irregular intervals, were like sweet 
 and fragrant draughts of life-giving air to 
 one who for months had breathed only the 
 smoke of battle and the foulness of the 
 trenches. 
 
 At the end of August, orders came for the 
 battalion to return to the front. There were 
 two days of bustling preparation, and then the 
 troops entrained and were carried back to 
 where the noise of the seventy-fives on the one 
 side and the seventy-sevens on the other, came 
 rumbling and thundering again to their ears,
 
 268 THE FLAG 
 
 and the pall of smoke along the horizon marked 
 the location of the firing line. 
 
 But their destination this time was farther 
 to the south, on the British right wing, where 
 French and English soldiers touched elbows 
 with each other, and Canadian and Australian 
 fraternized in a common enterprise. Here 
 again the old trench life was resumed ; sentinel 
 duty, daring adventures, wild charges, the 
 shock and din of constant battle, brief periods 
 of rest and recuperation. But the process of 
 attrition was going on, the enemy was being 
 pushed back, inch by inch it seemed, but al- 
 ways, eventually, back. As for Pen, he led 
 a charmed life. Men fell to right of him and 
 to left of him, and were torn into shreds at his 
 back; but, save for superficial wounds, for 
 temporary strangulation from gas, for momen- 
 tary insensibility from shock, he was unharmed. 
 
 It was in October, after Lieutenant Davis 
 had been promoted to the captaincy, that Pen 
 was made second lieutenant of his company. 
 He well deserved the honor. There was a lit- 
 tle celebration of the event among his men, for 
 his comrades all loved him and honored him.
 
 THE FLAG 269 
 
 They said it would not be long before he would 
 be wearing the Victoria Cross on his breast. 
 Yet few of them had been with him from the 
 beginning. Of those who had landed with him 
 upon French soil the preceding May only a 
 pitifully small percentage remained. Killed, 
 wounded, missing, one by one and in groups, 
 they had dropped out, and the depleted ranks 
 had been filled with new blood. 
 
 In November they were sent up into the 
 Arras sector, but in December they were back 
 again in their old quarters on the Somme. 
 And yet it was not their old quarters, for the 
 British front had been advanced over a wide 
 area, for many miles in length, and imper- 
 turbable Tommies were now smoking their 
 pipes in many a reversed trench that had there- 
 tofore been occupied by gray-clad Boches. 
 But they were not pleasant trenches to occupy. 
 They were veiy narrow and very muddy, and 
 parts of the bodies of dead men protruded here 
 and there from their walls and parapets. 
 Moreover, in December it is very cold in north- 
 ern France, and, muffle as they would, even the 
 boys from Canada suffered from the severity of
 
 270 THE FLAG 
 
 the weather. They asked only to be permitted 
 to keep their blood warm by aggressive action 
 against their enemy. And, just before the 
 Christmas holidays, the aggressive action they 
 had longed for came. 
 
 It was no great battle, no important historic 
 event, just an incident in the policy of attrition 
 which was constantly wearing away the Ger- 
 man lines. An attempt was to be made to 
 drive a wedge into the enemy's front at a cer- 
 tain vital point, and, in order to cover the real 
 thrust, several feints were to be made at other 
 places not far away. One of these latter ex- 
 peditions had been intrusted to a part of Pen's 
 battalion. At six o'clock in the afternoon the 
 British artillery was to bombard the first line 
 of enemy trenches for an hour and a half. 
 Then the artillery fire was to lift to the second 
 line, and the Canadian troops were to rush the 
 first line with the bayonet, carry it, and when 
 the artillery fire lifted to the third line they 
 were to pass on to the second hostile trench and 
 take and hold that for a sufficient length of 
 time to divert the enemy from the point of real 
 attack, and then they were to withdraw to their
 
 THE FLAG 271 
 
 own lines. Permanent occupation of the cap- 
 tured trenches at the point seemed inadvisable 
 at this time, if not wholly impossible. 
 
 It was not a welcome task that had been as- 
 signed to these troops. Soldiers like to hold 
 the ground they have won in any fight ; and to 
 retire after partial victory was not to their lik- 
 ing. But it was part of the game and they 
 were content. So far as his section was con- 
 cerned Pen assembled his men, explained the 
 situation to them, and told them frankly what 
 they were expected to do. 
 
 "It's going to be a very pretty fight," he 
 added, "probably the hardest tussle we've had 
 yet. The Bodies are well dug in over there, 
 and they're well backed with artillery, and 
 they're not going to give up those trenches 
 without a protest. Some of us will not come 
 back; and some of us who do come back will 
 never fight again. You know that. But, 
 whatever happens, Canada and the States will 
 have no reason to blush for us. We're fight- 
 ing in a splendid cause, and we'll do our part 
 like the soldiers we are." 
 
 "Aye! that we will!" "Right you are!"
 
 272 THE FLAG 
 
 "Give us the chance!" "Wherever you lead, 
 we follow!" 
 
 It seemed as though every man in the sec- 
 tion gave voice to his willingness and enthusi- 
 asm. 
 
 "Good!" exclaimed Pen. "I knew you'd 
 feel that way about it. I've never asked a 
 man of you to go where I wouldn't go myself, 
 and I never shall. I simply wanted to warn 
 you that it's going to be a hot place over there 
 to-night, and you must be prepared for it." 
 
 "We're ready! All you've got to do is to 
 say the word." 
 
 No undue familarity was intended; respect 
 for their commander was in no degree lessened, 
 but they loved him and would have followed 
 him anywhere, and they wanted him to know 
 it. 
 
 The unusual activity in the Allied trenches, 
 observed by enemy aircraft, combined with the 
 terrific cannonading of their lines, had evi- 
 dently convinced the enemy that some aggres- 
 sive movement against them was in contempla- 
 tion, for their artillery fire now, at seven 
 o'clock, was directed squarely upon the outer
 
 THE FLAG 273 
 
 lines of British trenches, bringing havoc and 
 horror in the wake of the exploding shells. 
 
 It was under this galling bombardment that 
 the men of the second section adjusted their 
 packs, buckled the last strap of their equip- 
 ment, took firm hold of their rifles, and 
 crouched against the front wall of their trench, 
 ready for the final spring. 
 
 At seven-thirty o'clock the order came. It 
 was a sharp blast of a whistle, made by the com- 
 manding officer. The next moment, led by 
 Lieutenant Butler, the men were up, sliding 
 over the parapet, worming their way through 
 gaps in their own wire entanglements, and 
 forming in the semblance of a line outside. It 
 all took but a minute, and then the rush to- 
 ward the enemy trenches began. It seemed as 
 though every gun of every calibre in the Ger- 
 man army was let loose upon them. The artil- 
 lery shortened its range and dropped exploding 
 shells among them with dreadful effect. Ma- 
 chine guns mowed them down in swaths. 
 Hand-grenades tore gaps in their ranks. 
 Rifle bullets, hissing like hail, took terrible toll 
 of them. Out of the blackness overhead, lit
 
 274 THE FLAG 
 
 with the flame of explosions, fell a constant 
 rain of metal, of clods of earth, of fragments 
 of equipment, of parts of human bodies. The 
 experience was wild and terrible beyond de- 
 scription. 
 
 Pen took no note of the whining and crash- 
 ing missiles about him, nor of the men falling 
 on both sides of him, nor of the shrieking, 
 gesticulating human beings behind him. Into 
 the face of death, his eyes fixed on the curtain 
 of fire before him, heroic and inspired, he led 
 the remnant of his brave platoon. Through 
 the gaps torn out of the enemy entanglements 
 by the preliminary bombardment, and on into 
 the first line of Boche entrenchments they 
 pounded and pushed their way. Then came 
 fighting indeed ; hand to hand, with fixed baj^o- 
 nets and clubbed muskets and death grapples 
 in the darkness, and everywhere, smearing and 
 soaking the combatants, the blood of men. 
 But the first trench, already battered into a 
 shapeless and shallow ravine, was won. Can- 
 ada was triumphant. The curtain of artillery 
 fire lifted and fell on the enemy's third line. 
 So, now, forward again, leaving the "trench
 
 INTO THE FACE OF DEATH HE LED THE REMNANT OF His BRAVE PLATOON* 
 
 p. 274.
 
 THE FLAG 275 
 
 cleaners" to hunt out those of the enemy who 
 had taken refuge in holes and caves. Again 
 the rain of hurtling and hissing and crashing 
 steel. Human fortitude and endurance were 
 indeed no match for this. Again the clubs and 
 bayonets and wild men reaching with blood- 
 smeared hands for each other's throats in the 
 darkness. 
 
 And then, to Penfield Butler, at last, came 
 the soldier's destiny. It seemed as though 
 some mighty force had struck him in the breast, 
 whirled him round and round, toppled him to 
 earth, and left him lying there, crushed, bleed- 
 ing and unconscious. How long it was that 
 he lay oblivious of the conflict he did not know. 
 But when he awakened to sensibility the rush 
 of battle had ceased. There was no fighting 
 around him. He had a sense of great suffoca- 
 tion. He knew that he was spitting blood. 
 He tried to raise his hand, and his revolver fell 
 from the nerveless fingers that were still grasp- 
 ing it. A little later he raised his other hand 
 to his breast and felt that his clothing was torn 
 and soaked. He lifted his head, and in the 
 light of an enemy flare he looked about him.
 
 276 THE FLAG 
 
 He saw only the torn soil covered with crouched 
 and sprawling bodies of the wounded and the 
 dead, and with wreckage indescribable. Bul- 
 lets were humming and whistling overhead, and 
 spattering the ground around him. Men in 
 the agony of their wounds were moaning and 
 crying near by. He lay back and tried to 
 think. By the light of the next flare he saw 
 the rough edge of a great shell-hole a little way 
 beyond him toward the British lines. In the 
 darkness he tried to crawl toward it. It would 
 be safer there than in this whistling cross-fire 
 of bullets. He did not dare try to rise. He 
 could not turn himself on his stomach, the pain 
 and sense of suffocation were too great when 
 he attempted it. So he pulled himself along 
 in the darkness on his back to the cavity, and 
 sought shelter within it. Bodies of others who 
 had attempted to run or creep to it, and had 
 been caught by Boche bullets on the way, were 
 hanging over its edge. Under its protecting 
 shoulder were many wounded, treating their 
 own injuries, helping others as they could in 
 the darkness and by the fitful light of the Ger- 
 man flares. Some one, whose friendly voice
 
 THE FLAG 277 
 
 was half familiar, yet sounded strange and far 
 away, dragged the exhausted boy still farther 
 into shelter, felt of his blood-soaked chest, and 
 endeavored, awkwardly and crudely, for he 
 himself was wounded, to give first aid. And 
 then again came unconsciousness. 
 
 So, in the black night, in the shell-made cav- 
 ern with the pall of flame-streaked battle smoke 
 hanging over it, and the whining, screaming 
 missiles from guns of friend and foe weaving 
 a curtain of tangled threads above it, this 
 young soldier of the American Legion, his 
 breast shot half in two, his rich blood redden- 
 ing the soil of France, lay steeped in merciful 
 oblivion.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 WHEN Colonel Butler declared his inten- 
 tion of going to New York and Washington 
 to consult with his friends about the great war, 
 to urge active participation in it by the United 
 States, and to offer to the proper authorities, 
 his services as a military expert and com- 
 mander, his daughter protested vigorously. 
 It was absurd, she declared, for him, at his 
 age, to think of doing anything of the kind; 
 utterly preposterous and absurd. But he 
 would not listen to her. His mind was made 
 up, and she was entirely unable to divert him 
 from his purpose. 
 
 "Then I shall go with you," she declared. 
 
 "May I ask," he inquired, "what your object 
 is in wishing to accompany me?" 
 
 "Because you're not fit to go alone. You're 
 too old and feeble, and something might hap- 
 pen to you."
 
 THE FLAG 279 
 
 He turned on her a look of infinite 
 scorn. 
 
 "Age," he replied, "is no barrier to patriot- 
 ism. A man's obligation to serve his country 
 is not measured by his years. I have never 
 been more capable of taking the field against 
 an enemy of civilization than I am at this mo- 
 ment. To suggest that I am not fit to travel 
 unless accompanied by a female member of my 
 family falls little short of being gross disre- 
 spect. I shall go alone." 
 
 Again she protested, but she was utterly un- 
 able to swerve him a hair's breadth from his 
 determination and purpose. So she was 
 obliged to see him start off by himself on his 
 useless and Quixotic errand. She knew that 
 he would return disappointed, saddened, 
 doubly depressed, and ill both in body and 
 mind. 
 
 Since Pen's abrupt departure to seek a home 
 with his Grandpa Walker, Colonel Butler had 
 not been so obedient to his daughter's wishes. 
 He had changed in many respects. He had 
 grown old, white-haired, feeble and despond- 
 ent. He was often ill at ease, and sometimes
 
 280 THE FLAG 
 
 morose. That he grieved over the boy's ab- 
 sence there was not a shadow of doubt. Yet 
 he would not permit the first suggestion of a 
 reconciliation that did not involve the humble 
 application of his grandson to be forgiven and 
 taken back. But such an application was not 
 made. The winter days went by, spring blos- 
 somed into summer, season followed season, 
 and not yet had the master of Bannerhall seen 
 coming down the long, gray road to the old 
 home the figure of a sorrowful and suppliant 
 boy. 
 
 When the world war began, his mind was 
 diverted to some extent from his sorrow. 
 From the beginning his sympathies had been 
 with the Allies. Old soldier that he was he 
 could not denounce with sufficient bitterness 
 the spirit of militarism that seemed to have run 
 rampant among the Central Powers. At the 
 invasion of Belgium and at the mistreatment 
 of her people, especially of her women and 
 children, at the bombardment of the cathedral 
 of Rheims, at the sinking of the Lmitama, at 
 the execution of Edith Cavell, at all the out- 
 rages of which German militarism was guilty,
 
 THE FLAG 281 
 
 he grew more and more indignant and denun- 
 ciatory. His sense of fairness, his spirit of 
 chivalry, his ideas of honorable warfare and 
 soldierly conduct were inexpressibly shocked. 
 The murder of sleeping women and children 
 in country villages by the dropping of bombs 
 from airships, the suffocation of brave soldiers 
 by the use of deadly gases, the hurling of liquid 
 fire into the ranks of a civilized enemy; these 
 things stirred him to the depths. He talked 
 of the war by day, he dreamed of it at night. 
 He chafed bitterly at the apparent attempt of 
 the Government at Washington to preserve the 
 neutrality of this country against the most pro- 
 voking wrongs. It was our war, he declared, 
 as much as it was the war of any nation in 
 Europe, and it was our duty to get into it for 
 the sake of humanity, at the earliest possible 
 moment and at any cost. His intense feeling 
 and profound conviction in the matter led 
 finally to his determination to make the trip 
 to New York and Washington in order to pre- 
 sent his views and make his recommendations, 
 and to offer his services in person, in quarters 
 where he believed they would be welcomed and
 
 282 THE FLAG 
 
 acted on. So he went on what appeared to 
 his daughter to be the most preposterous er- 
 rand he had ever undertaken. 
 
 He returned even sooner than she had ex- 
 pected him to come. In response to his tele- 
 gram she sent the carriage to the station to 
 meet him on the arrival of the afternoon train. 
 When she heard the rumbling of the wheels 
 outside she went to the door, knowing that it 
 would require her best effort to cheerfully wel- 
 come the disappointed, dejected and enfeebled 
 old man. Then she had the surprise of her 
 life. Colonel Butler alighted from the car- 
 riage and mounted the porch steps with the 
 elasticity of youth. He was travel-stained and 
 weary, indeed; but his face, from which half 
 the wrinkles seemed to have disappeared, was 
 beaming with happiness. He kissed his 
 daughter, and, with old-fashioned courtesy, 
 conducted her to a porch chair. In her mind 
 there could be but one explanation for his ex- 
 traordinary appearance and conduct; the pur- 
 pose of his journey had been accomplished and 
 his last absurd wish had been gratified. 
 
 "I suppose," she said, with a sigh, "they
 
 THE FLAG 283 
 
 have agreed to adopt your plans, and take you 
 back into the army. 
 
 "Into the what, my dear?" 
 
 "Into the army. Didn't you go to Wash- 
 ington for the purpose of getting back into 
 service?" 
 
 "Why, yes. I believe I did. Pardon me, 
 but, in view of matters of much greater im- 
 portance, the result of this particular effort 
 had slipped my mind." 
 
 "Matters of greater importance?" 
 
 "Yes. I was about to inform you that while 
 I was in Xew York I unexpectedly ran across 
 my grandson, Master Penfield Butler." 
 
 She sat up with a look of surprise and appre- 
 hension in her eyes. 
 
 "Ran across Pen? What was he doing 
 there?" 
 
 "He was on his way to Canada to join those 
 forces of the Dominion Government which will 
 eventually sail for France, and help to free that 
 unhappy country from the heel of the barbar- 
 ian." 
 
 "You mean?" 
 
 "I mean that Penfield was to enlist, has
 
 284 THE FLAG 
 
 doubtless now already enlisted, with the Can- 
 adian troops which, after a period of drilling 
 at home, will enter the war on the firing line in 
 northern France." 
 
 "Well, for goodness sake!" It was all that 
 Aunt Millicent could say, and when she had 
 said that she practically collapsed. 
 
 "Yes," he rejoined, "he felt as did I, that 
 the time had come for American citizens, both 
 old and young, with red blood in their veins, 
 to spill that blood, if necessary, in fighting for 
 the liberty of the world. Patriotism, duty, the 
 spirit of his ancestors, called him, and he has 
 gone." 
 
 Colonel Butler was radiant. His eyes were 
 aglow with enthusiasm. His own recom- 
 mendations for national conduct had gone un- 
 heeded indeed, and his own offer of military 
 service had been civilly declined; but these 
 facts were of small moment compared with the 
 proud knowledge that a young scion of his race 
 was about to carry the family traditions and 
 prestige into the battle front of the greatest 
 war for liberty that the world had ever known. 
 
 In Pen's second letter home from Canada he
 
 THE FLAG 285 
 
 told of the arrival and enlistment of Aleck 
 Sands, and of the complete blotting out of the 
 old feud that had existed between them. Later 
 on he wrote them, in many letters, all about his 
 barrack life, and of how contented and happy 
 he was, and how eagerly he was looking for- 
 ward to the day when he and his comrades 
 should cross the water to those countries where 
 the great war was a reality. The letter that 
 he wrote the day before he sailed was rilled with 
 the brightness of enthusiasm and the joy of an- 
 ticipation. And while the long period of drill 
 on English soil became somewhat irksome to 
 him, as one reading between the lines could 
 readily discover, he made no direct complaint. 
 It was simply a part of the game. But it was 
 when he had reached the front, and his letters 
 breathed the sternness of the conflict and 
 echoed the thunder of the guns, that he was at 
 his best in writing. Mere salutations some of 
 them were, written from the trenches by the 
 light of a dug-out candle, but they pulsated 
 with patriotism and heroism and a determina- 
 tion to live up to the best traditions of a sol- 
 dier's career.
 
 286 THE FLAG 
 
 Colonel Butler devoured every scrap of news 
 that came from the front in the half dozen 
 papers that he read daily. He kept in close 
 touch with the international situation, he fumed 
 constantly at the inactivity of his own govern- 
 ment in view of her state of unpreparedness for 
 a war into which she must sooner or later be in- 
 evitably plunged. He lost all patience with 
 what he considered the timidity of the Presi- 
 dent, and what he called the stupidity of con- 
 gress. Was not the youngest and the reddest 
 and the best of the Butler blood at the fighting 
 line, ready at any moment to be spilled to the 
 death on the altar of the world's liberty? 
 Why then should the government of the United 
 States sit supinely by and see the finest young 
 manhood of her own and other lands fighting 
 and perishing in the cause of humanity when, 
 by voicing the conscience of her people, and de- 
 claring and making war on the Central Powers, 
 she could most effectually aid in bringing to a 
 speedy and victorious end this monstrous ex- 
 ample of modern barbarism? Why, indeed! 
 
 One day Colonel Butler suggested to his 
 daughter that she go up to Lowbridge and
 
 THE FLAG 287 
 
 again inquire whether Pen's mother had any 
 needs of any kind that he could possibly 
 supply. 
 
 "And," he added, "I wish you to invite her 
 to Bannerhall for a visit of indefinite duration. 
 In these trying and critical times my daughter- 
 in-law's place is in the ancestral home of her 
 deceased husband." 
 
 Aunt Millicent, delighted with the purport of 
 her mission, went up to Lowbridge and ex- 
 tended the invitation, and, with all the elo- 
 quence at her command, urged its acceptance. 
 But Sarah Butler was unyielding and would 
 not come. She had been wounded too deeply 
 in years gone by. 
 
 So spring came, and blade, leaf and flower 
 sprang into beautiful and rejoicing existence. 
 Xo one had ever before seen the orchard trees 
 so superbly laden with blossoms. No one had 
 ever before seen a brighter promise of a more 
 bountiful season. And the country was still 
 at peace, enriching herself with a mintage 
 coined of blood and sorrow abroad, though 
 drifting aimlessly and ever closer to the verge 
 of war.
 
 288 THE FLAG 
 
 There was a time early in July when, for 
 two weeks, no letter came from Pen. The sus- 
 pense was almost unbearable. For days 
 Colonel Butler haunted the post-office. His 
 self-assurance left him, his confident and con- 
 vincing voice grew weak, a haunting fear of 
 what news might come was with him night and 
 day. 
 
 At last he received a letter from abroad. It 
 was from Pen, addressed in his own hand-writ- 
 ing. The colonel himself took it from his box 
 at the post-office in the presence of a crowd of 
 his neighbors and friends awaiting the distribu- 
 tion of their mail. It was scrawled in pencil 
 on paper that had never been intended to be 
 used for correspondence purposes. 
 
 Pen had just learned, he wrote, that the 
 messenger who carried a former letter from 
 the trenches for him had been killed en route 
 by an exploding shell, and the contents of his 
 mail pouch scattered and destroyed. More- 
 over he had been very busy. Fighting had 
 been brisk, there had been a good many cas- 
 ualties in his company, but he himself, save 
 for some superficial wounds received on the
 
 THE FLAG 289 
 
 Fourth of July, was unhurt and reasonably 
 well. 
 
 "I am sorry to report, however," the letter 
 continued, "that my comrade, Aleck Sands, has 
 been severely wounded. We were engaged in 
 a brisk assault on the enemy's lines on the 
 Fourth of July, and captured some of their 
 trenches. During the engagement Aleck re- 
 ceived a bayonet wound in the shoulder, and 
 a badly battered knee. I was able to help him 
 off the field and to an ambulance. I believe 
 he is somewhere now in a hospital not far to 
 the rear of us. I mean to see him soon if I can 
 find out where he is and get leave. Tell his 
 folks that he fought like a hero. I never saw a 
 braver man in battle. 
 
 "You will be glad to learn that since the en- 
 gagement on the fourth I have been made 
 a sergeant, 'for conspicuous bravery in action,' 
 the order read. 
 
 "I suppose the flag is flying on the school- 
 house staff these days. How I would like to 
 see it. If I could only see the Stars and 
 Stripes over here, and our own troops under it, 
 I should be perfectly happy. The longer I 
 fight here the more I'm convinced that the 
 cause we're fighting for is a just and glorious 
 one, and the more willing I am to die for it.
 
 290 THE FLAG 
 
 "Give my dear love to Aunt Milly. I have 
 just written to mother. 
 
 "Your affectionate grandson, 
 
 "PENFIELD BUTLER." 
 
 Colonel Butler looked up from the reading 
 with moist eyes and glowing face, to find a 
 dozen of his townsmen who knew that the letter 
 had come, waiting to hear news from Pen. 
 
 "On Independence Day," said the colonel, in 
 answer to their inquiries, "he participated in a 
 gallant and bloody assault on the enemy's 
 lines, in which many trenches were taken. 
 Save for superficial wounds, easily healed in 
 the young and vigorous, he came out of the 
 melee unscathed." 
 
 "Good for him!" exclaimed one. 
 
 "Bravo!" shouted another. 
 
 "And, gentlemen," the colonel's voice rose 
 and swelled moderately as he proceeded, "I am 
 proud to say that, following that engagement, 
 my grandson, for conspicuous bravery in ac- 
 tion, was promoted to the rank of sergeant in 
 the colonial troops of Great Britain." 
 
 "Splendid!" 
 
 "He's the boy!"
 
 THE FLAG 291 
 
 "We're proud of him !" 
 
 The colonel's eyes were flashing now; his 
 head was erect, his one hand was thrust into the 
 bosom of his waistcoat. 
 
 "I thank you, gentlemen!" he said, "on be- 
 half of my grandson. To pass inherited pa- 
 triotism from father to son, from generation to 
 generation, and to see it find its perfect fulfill- 
 ment in the latest scion of the race, is to live in 
 the golden age, gentlemen, and to partake of 
 the fountain of youth." 
 
 His voice quavered a little at the end, and 
 he waited for a moment to recover it, and pos- 
 sibly to give his eloquence an opportunity to 
 sink in more deeply, and then he continued: 
 
 "I regret to say, gentlemen, that in the 
 fierce engagement of the fourth instant, my 
 grandson's gallant comrade, Master Alexander 
 Sands, was severely wounded both in the shoul- 
 der and the knee, and is now somewhere in a 
 hospital in northern France, well back of the 
 lines, recuperating from his injuries. I shall 
 communicate this information at once to his 
 parents, together with such encouragement as 
 is contained in my grandson's letter."
 
 292 THE FLAG 
 
 Proud as a king, he turned from the sympa- 
 thetic group, entered his carriage and was 
 driven toward Chestnut Valley. 
 
 It was late in September when Aleck Sands 
 came home. The family at Bannerhall, aug- 
 mented within the last year by the addition of 
 Colonel Butler's favorite niece, was seated at 
 the supper table one evening when Elmer Cud- 
 deback, now grown into a fine, stalwart youth, 
 hurried in to announce the arrival. 
 
 "I happened to be at the station when Aleck 
 came," he said. "He looked like a skeleton 
 and a ghost rolled into one. He couldn't walk 
 at all, and he was just able to talk. But he 
 said he'd been having a fine time and was feel- 
 ing bully. Isn't that nerve for you?" 
 
 "Splendid!" exclaimed the colonel, holding 
 his napkin high in the air in his excitement. 
 "A marvelous young man! I shall do myself 
 the honor to call on him in person tomorrow 
 morning, and compliment him on his bravery, 
 and congratulate him on his escape from mor- 
 tal injury." 
 
 He was as good as his word. He and his 
 daughter both went down to Cherry Valley
 
 THE FLAG 293 
 
 and called on Aleck Sands. He was lying 
 propped up in bed, attended by a thankful and 
 devoted mother, trying to give rest to a tired 
 and irritated body, and to enjoy once more 
 the sights and sounds of home. He was too 
 weak to do much talking, but almost his first 
 words were an anxious inquiry about Pen. 
 They told him what they knew. 
 
 "He came to see me at the hospital in 
 August," said Aleck. "It was like a breeze 
 from heaven. If he doesn't come back here 
 alive and well at the end of this war, with the 
 Victoria Cross on his breast, I shall be ashamed 
 to go out on the street ; he is so much the braver 
 soldier and the better man of the two of us." 
 
 "He has written to us," said the colonel, and 
 his eyes were moist, and his voice choked a 
 little as he spoke, "that you, yourself, in the 
 matter of courage in battle, upheld the best 
 traditions of American bravery, and I am 
 proud of you, sir, as are all of your townsmen." 
 
 The colonel would have remained to listen 
 to further commendation of his grandson, and 
 to discuss with one who had actually been on the 
 fighting line, the conditions under which the
 
 294 THE FLAG 
 
 war was being waged ; but his daughter, seeing 
 that the boy needed rest, brought the visit to a 
 speedy close. 
 
 "Give my love to Pen when you write to 
 him," said Aleck, as he bade them good-by; 
 "the bravest soldier and the dearest comrade 
 that ever carried a gun." 
 
 After the winter holidays a week went by 
 with no letter from Pen. The colonel began 
 to grow anxious, but it was not until the end of 
 the second week that he really became alarmed. 
 And when three weeks had gone by, and 
 neither the mails nor the cable nor the wireless 
 had brought any news of the absent soldier, 
 Colonel Butler was on the verge of despair. 
 He had haunted the post-office as before, he 
 had made inquiry at the state department at 
 Washington, he had telegraphed to Canada 
 for information, but nothing came of it all. 
 Aleck Sands had heard absolutely nothing. 
 Pen's mother, almost beside herself, telephoned 
 every day to Bannerhall for news, and received 
 none. The strain of apprehensive waiting be- 
 came almost unbearable for them all. 
 
 One day, unable longer to withstand the
 
 THE FLAG 295 
 
 heart-breaking tension, the old patriot sent an 
 agent post-haste to Toronto, with instructions 
 to spare no effort and no expense in finding 
 out what had become of his grandson. 
 
 Three days later, from his agent came a tele- 
 gram reading as follows : 
 
 "Lieutenant Butler in hospital near Rouen. 
 Wound severe. Suffering now from pneu- 
 monia. Condition serious but still hopeful. 
 Details by letter." 
 
 This telegram was received at Bannerhall in 
 the morning. In the early afternoon of the 
 same day Pen's mother received a letter writ- 
 ten three weeks earlier by his nurse at the hos- 
 pital. She was an American girl who had been 
 long in France, and who, from the beginning 
 of the war, had given herself whole-heartedly 
 to the work at the hospitals. 
 
 "Do not be unduly alarmed," she wrote, 
 "he is severely wounded; evidently a hand- 
 grenade exploded against his breast; but if we 
 are able to ward off pneumonia he will recover. 
 He has given me your name and address, 
 and wished me to write. I think an early 
 and cheerful letter from you would be a
 
 296 THE FLAG 
 
 great comfort to him, and I hope he will be 
 able to appreciate some gifts and dainties 
 from home by the time they could reach 
 here. Let me add that he is a model pa- 
 tient, quiet and uncomplaining, and I am 
 told that he was among the bravest of all the 
 brave Americans fighting with the Canadian 
 forces on the Somme." 
 
 Between Bannerhall and Sarah Butler's 
 home at Lowbridge the telephone lines were 
 busy that day. It was a relief to all of them 
 to know that Pen was living and being cared 
 for; it was a source of apprehension and grief 
 to them that his condition, as intimated in the 
 telegram, was still so critical. 
 
 As for Colonel Butler he was in a fever of 
 excitement and distress. Late in the after- 
 noon he went to his room and, with his one 
 hand, began, hastily and confusedly, to pack a 
 small steamer trunk. His daughter found him 
 so occupied. 
 
 "What in the world are you doing?" she 
 asked him. 
 
 "I am preparing to go to Rouen," he re- 
 plied, "to see that my grandson is cared for in
 
 THE FLAG 297 
 
 his illness in a manner due to one who has 
 placed his life in jeopardy for France." 
 
 "Father, stand up! Look at me! Listen 
 to me!" The very essence of determination 
 was in her voice and manner, and he obeyed 
 her. "You are not to stir one step from this 
 town. Sarah Butler and I are going to 
 France to be with Pen; we have talked it over 
 and decided on it; and you are going to stay 
 right here at Bannerhall, where you can be of 
 supreme service to us, instead of burdening us 
 with your company." 
 
 He looked at her steadily for a moment, but 
 he saw only rigid resolution and determination 
 in her eyes; he was too unstrung and broken 
 to protest, or to insist on his right as head of 
 the house, and so he yielded. Later in the 
 day, however, a compromise was effected. It 
 was agreed that he should accompany his 
 daughter and his daughter-in-law to New 
 York, aid them in securing passage, passports 
 and credentials, and see them safely aboard 
 ship for their perilous journey, after which he 
 was to return home and spend the time quietly 
 with his niece Eleanor, and make necessary
 
 298 THE FLAG 
 
 preparations for the return of the invalid, later 
 on, to Bannerhall. 
 
 He carried out his part of the New York pro- 
 gram in good faith, and had the satisfaction, 
 three days later, of bidding the two women 
 good-by on the deck of a French liner bound for 
 Havre. He had no apprehension concerning 
 the fitness of his daughter to go abroad unac- 
 companied save by her sister-in-law. She had 
 been with him on three separate trips to the con- 
 tinent, and, in his judgment, for a woman, she 
 had displayed marked traveling ability. His 
 only fear was of German submarines. 
 
 "A most cowardly, dastardly, uncivilized 
 way," he declared, "of waging war upon an en- 
 emy's women and children." 
 
 He was in good spirits as the vessel sailed. 
 His parting words to his daughter were: 
 
 "If you should have occasion to discuss with 
 our friends in France the attitude of this nation 
 toward the war, you may say that it is my opin- 
 ion that the conscience of the country is now 
 awake, and that before long we shall be shoul- 
 der to shoulder with them in the destruction of 
 barbarism."
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 FOR twenty-five years there has stood, in one 
 of the faubourgs of Rouen, not far from the 
 right bank of the Seine, a long two-story brick 
 building, with a wing reaching back to the base 
 of the hill. Up to the year 1915 it was used 
 as a factory for the making of silk ribbons. 
 Rouen had been a center of the cotton man- 
 ufacturing industry from time immemorial. 
 Why therefore should not the making of silk 
 be added? It was added, and the enterprise 
 grew and became prosperous. Then came the 
 war, vast, terrible, bringing in its train suf- 
 fering, poverty, a drastic curtailment of all 
 the luxuries of life. Silk ribbons are a luxury ; 
 they go with soft living. So, then ; v oild tout! 
 Before the end of the first year of the conflict 
 the factory was transformed into a hospital. 
 The clatter of looms and the chatter of girls 
 gave place to the moanings of sick and 
 wounded men, and the gentle voices of white
 
 300 THE FLAG 
 
 and blue clad nurses. It was no longer bales 
 of raw silk that were carted up to the big doors 
 of the factory, and boxes of rolled ribbon that 
 were trundled down the drive to the street, to 
 the warehouses, and thence to the admiring 
 eyes of beauty-loving women. The human 
 freight that was brought to the big doors in 
 these days consisted of the pierced and muti- 
 lated bodies of men ; soldiers for whom the final 
 taps would soon sound. If they chanced to be 
 of the British troops, and held fast to the spark 
 of life within them, then they were close enough 
 to the seaport to be taken across the channel 
 for final convalescence under English skies. 
 
 It was to this hospital that Lieutenant Pen- 
 field Butler was brought from the battle-field of 
 the Somme. His battalion had done the work 
 assigned to it in the fight, had done it well, and 
 had withdrawn to its trenches, leaving a third 
 of its men dead or wounded between the lines. 
 Later on, under cover of a galling artillery fire, 
 rescue parties had gone out to bring in the 
 wounded. They had found Pen in the shelter 
 of the shell-hole, still unconscious. They had 
 brought him back across the fire-swept field,
 
 THE FLAG 301 
 
 and down through the winding, narrow 
 trenches, to the first-aid station, from which, 
 after a hurried examination and superficial 
 treatment of his wounds, he was taken in a 
 guard-car to a field hospital in the rear of the 
 lines. But space in these field hospitals is too 
 precious to permit of wounded men who can 
 be moved without fatal results, remaining in 
 them for long periods. The stream of new- 
 comers is too constant and too pressing. 
 So, after five days, Pen was sent, by way of 
 Amiens, to the hospital in the suburbs of 
 Rouen. He, himself, knew little of where he 
 was or of what was being done for him. A 
 bullet had grazed his right arm, and a clubbed 
 musket or revolver had laid his scalp open to 
 the bone. But these were slight injuries in 
 comparison with the awful wound in his breast. 
 Torn flesh, shattered bones, pierced lungs, 
 these things left life hanging by the slenderest 
 thread. When the medecin-chef of the hos- 
 pital near Rouen took his first look at the boy 
 after his arrival, he had him put under the in- 
 fluence of an anaesthetic in order that he could 
 the more readily and effectively examine, probe
 
 302 THE FLAG 
 
 and dress the wound, and remove any irritating 
 splinters of bone that might be the cause of the 
 continuous leakage from the lungs. But when 
 he had finished his delicate and strenuous task 
 he turned to the nurse at his side and gave a 
 hopeless shake of his head and shrug of his 
 shoulders. 
 
 "Fichu!" he said ; ff le laisser tranquille." 
 
 "But I am not going to let him die," she re- 
 plied; "he is too young, too handsome, too 
 brave, and he is an American." 
 
 He smiled, shook his head again and passed 
 on to the next case. The girl was an American 
 too, and these American nurses were always so 
 optimistic, so faithfully persistent, she might 
 pull him through, but the smile of incredu- 
 lity still lay on the lips of the medicin-chef. 
 
 The next day the young soldier was better. 
 The leakage had not yet wholly ceased ; but the 
 wound was apparently beginning to heal. He 
 was still dazed, and his pain was still too severe 
 to be endured without opiates. It was five 
 days later that he came fully to his senses, was 
 able to articulate, and to frame intelligent sen- 
 tences. He indicated to his nurse, Miss By-
 
 THE FLAG 303 
 
 ron, that he wished to have his mother written 
 to. 
 
 "No especial message," he whispered, "just 
 that I am here have been wounded recover- 
 ing." 
 
 But the nurse had already learned from 
 other men of Pen's company, less seriously 
 wounded than he, who were at the same hos- 
 pital, something about the boy's desperate 
 braver)^ and how his stern fighting qualities 
 were combined with great tenderness of heart 
 and a most loving disposition, and she could not 
 avoid putting an echo of it in her letter to his 
 mother. 
 
 Later on Pen developed symptoms of pneu- 
 monia, a disease that follows so often on an in- 
 jury to the structure of the lungs. 
 
 When the medecin-chef came and noted the 
 increase in temperature and the decrease in vi- 
 tality, he looked grave. Every day, with true 
 French courtesy, he had congratulated Miss 
 Byron on her remarkable success in nursing 
 the young American back to life. But now, 
 perhaps, after all, the efforts of both of them 
 would be wasted. Pneumonia is a hard foe to
 
 304 THE FLAG 
 
 fight when it attacks wounded lungs. So an 
 English physician was called in and joined with 
 the French surgeon and the American nurse 
 to combat the dreaded enemy. It seemed, 
 somehow, as if each of them felt that the honor 
 of his or her country was at stake in this battle 
 with disease and death across that hospital bed 
 in the old factory near Rouen. 
 
 It was late in February when Pen's mother 
 and his Aunt Millicent reached Havre, and 
 took the next available train up to Rouen. 
 They had not heard from Pen since sailing, and 
 they were almost beside themselves with anxi- 
 ety and apprehension. But the telephone 
 service between the city and its faubourgs is 
 excellent, Aunt Millicent could speak French 
 with comparative fluency, and it was not many 
 minutes after their arrival before they had ob- 
 tained connection with the hospital and were 
 talking with Miss Byron. 
 
 "He is very ill," she said, "but we feel that 
 the crisis of his disease has passed, and we hope 
 for his recovery." 
 
 So, then, he was still living, and there was 
 hope. In the early twilight of the winter even-
 
 THE FLAG 305 
 
 ing the two women rode out to the suburban 
 town and went up to the hospital to see him. 
 He did not open his eyes, nor recognize them 
 in any way, he did not even know that they 
 were with him. 
 
 "There have been many complications of the 
 illness from his wound," said the nurse; "double 
 pneumonia, typhoid symptoms, and what not; 
 we dared not hope for him for a while, but we 
 feel now that perhaps the worst is over. He 
 has made a splendid fight for his life," she 
 added; "he deserves to win. And he is the 
 favorite of the hospital. Every one loves him. 
 The first question all my patients ask me when 
 I make my first round for the day is 'How is 
 the young American lieutenant this morning?' 
 Oh, if good wishes and genuine affection can 
 keep him with us, he will stay." 
 
 So, with tear-wet faces, grateful yet still 
 anxious, the two women left him for the night 
 and sought hospitality at a modest pension in 
 the neighborhood of the hospital. 
 
 But a precious life still hung in the balance. 
 As he had lain for many days, so the young 
 soldier continued to lie, for many days to come,
 
 306 THE FLAG 
 
 apparently without thought or vitality, save 
 that those who watched him could catch now 
 and then a low murmur from his lips, and 
 could see the faint rise and fall of his scarred 
 and bandaged breast. 
 
 Then, so slowly that it seemed to those who 
 looked lovingly on that ages were going by, he 
 began definitely to mend. He could open his 
 eyes, and move his head and hands, and he 
 seemed to grasp, by degrees, the fact that his 
 mother and his Aunt Millicent were often sit- 
 ting at his bedside. But when he tried to 
 speak his tongue would not obey his will. 
 
 One day, when he awakened from a refresh- 
 ing sleep, he seemed brighter and stronger than 
 he had been at ajiy time before. The two 
 women whom he most loved were sitting on 
 opposite sides of his cot, and his devoted and 
 delighted nurse stood near by, smiling down on 
 him. He smiled back up at each of them in 
 turn, but he made no attempt to speak. He 
 seemed to know that he had not yet the power 
 of articulation. 
 
 His cot, in an alcove at the end of the main 
 aisle, was so placed that, when the curtains
 
 THE FLAG 307 
 
 were drawn aside, he could, at will, look down 
 the long rows of beds where once the looms had 
 clattered, and watch wan faces, and recumbent 
 forms under the white spreads, and nurses, 
 some garbed in white, and some in blue, and 
 some in more sober colors, moving gently about 
 among the sufferers in performance of their 
 thrice-blest and most angelic tasks. It was 
 there that he was looking now, and the two 
 women at his bedside who were watching him, 
 saw that his eyes were fixed, with strange inten- 
 sity, on some object in the distance. They 
 turned to see what it was. To their utter as- 
 tonishment and dismay they discovered, march- 
 ing up the aisle, accompanied by an infirmiere, 
 Colonel Richard Butler. Whence, when, and 
 how he had come, they knew not. He stopped 
 at the entrance to the alcove, and held up his 
 hand as though demanding silence. And there 
 was silence. No one spoke or stirred. He 
 looked down at Pen who lay, still speech- 
 less, staring up at him in surprise and de- 
 light. 
 
 Into the colonel's glowing face there came a 
 look of tenderness, of rapt sympathy, of exult-
 
 308 THE FLAG 
 
 ant pride, that those who saw it will never for- 
 get. 
 
 He stepped lightly forward and took Pen's 
 limp hand in his and pressed it gently. 
 
 "God bless you, my boy!" he said. 
 
 No one had ever heard Richard Butler say 
 "God bless you" before, and no one ever heard 
 him say it again. But when he said it that day 
 to the dark-haired, white faced, war-worn sol- 
 dier on the cot in the hospital near Rouen, the 
 words came straight from a big, and brave, and 
 tender heart. 
 
 He laid Pen's hand slowly back on the coun- 
 terpane, and then he parted his white mous- 
 tache, as he had done that night at the hotel in 
 New York, and bent over and kissed the boy's 
 forehead. It may have been the rapture of the 
 kiss that did it ; God knows ; but at that moment 
 Pen's tongue was loosened, his lips parted, and 
 he cried out : 
 
 "Grandfather!" 
 
 With a judgment and a self-denial rare 
 among men, the colonel answered the boy's 
 greeting with another gentle hand-clasp, and a 
 beneficent smile, and turned and marched
 
 THE FLAG 309 
 
 proudly and gratefully back down the long 
 aisle, stopping here and there to greet some 
 sick soldier who had given him a friendly look 
 or smile, until he stood in the open doorway 
 and lifted up his eyes to gaze on the blue line of 
 distant hills across the Seine. 
 
 Later, when the two women came to him, 
 and he went with them to the pension where 
 they were staying, he explained to them the 
 cause of his sudden and unheralded appear- 
 ance. He had received their cablegrams in- 
 deed; but these, instead of serving to allay his 
 anxiety, had made it only the more acute. To 
 wait now for letters was impossible. His pa- 
 tience was utterly exhausted. He could no 
 more have remained quietly at home than he 
 could have shut up his eyes and ears and mouth 
 and lain quietly down to die. The call that 
 came to him from the bed of his beloved grand- 
 son in France, that sounded in his ears day- 
 time and night-time as he paced the floors of 
 Bannerhall, was too insistent and imperious to 
 be resisted. Against the vigorous protests of 
 his niece, and the timid remonstrances of the 
 few friends who were made aware of his pur-
 
 310 THE FLAG 
 
 pose, he put himself in readiness to sail on the 
 next out-going steamer that would carry him to 
 his longed-for destination. And it was only 
 after he had boarded the vessel, and had felt 
 the slow movement of the ship as she was 
 warped out into the stream, that he became con- 
 tented, comfortable, thoroughly at ease in body 
 and mind, and ready to await patiently what- 
 ever might come to him at the end of his 
 journey. 
 
 So it was in good health and spirits that he 
 landed at Havre, came up to Rouen, and made 
 his way to the hospital. 
 
 And for once in her life his daughter did not 
 chide him. Instinctively she felt the power of 
 the great tenderness and yearning in his breast 
 that had impelled him to come, and, so far as 
 any word of disapproval was concerned, she 
 was silent. 
 
 He talked much about Pen. He asked what 
 they had learned concerning his bravery in bat- 
 tle, the manner in which he had received his 
 wounds, the nature of his long illness, and the 
 probability of his continued convalescence. 
 
 "I hope," said Pen's mother, "that I shall be
 
 THE FLAG 311 
 
 able to take him back to Lowbridge next 
 month." 
 
 The old man looked up in surprise and 
 alarm. 
 
 "To Lowbridge?" he said, and added: "Not 
 to Lowbridge, Sarah Butler. My grandson 
 will return to Bannerhall, the home of his an- 
 cestors." 
 
 "Colonel Butler, my son's home is with me." 
 
 "And your home," replied the colonel, "is 
 with me. My son's widow must no longer live 
 under any other roof than mine. The day of 
 estrangement has fully passed. You will find 
 welcome and affection, and, I hope, an abund- 
 ance of happiness at Bannerhall." 
 
 She did not answer him ; she could not. Nor 
 did he demand an answer. He seemed to 
 take it for granted that his wish in the matter 
 would be complied with, and his will obeyed. 
 But it was not until his daughter Millicent, by 
 much argument and persuasion, through many 
 days, had convinced her that her place was with 
 them, that her son's welfare and his grand- 
 father's length of days depended on both 
 mother and son complying with Colonel But-
 
 312 THE FLAG 
 
 ler's wish and demand, that she consented to 
 blot out the past and to go to live at Banner- 
 hall. 
 
 It was on the second day of April, 1917, that 
 the President of the United States read his 
 world famous message to Congress, asking that 
 body to "declare the recent course of the Im- 
 perial German Government to be in fact noth- 
 ing less than war against the Government and 
 people of the United States" and to "employ 
 all of its resources to bring the Government of 
 Germany to terms and to end the war." 
 
 And it was on the third day of April that 
 Colonel Richard Butler, walking up the long 
 aisle of the war hospital near Rouen in the late 
 afternoon, smiled and nodded to right and left 
 and said : 
 
 "At last we are with you; we are with you. 
 America has answered the call of her con- 
 science, she will now come into her own." 
 
 And they smiled back at him, did these worn 
 and broken men, for the news of the Presi- 
 dent's declaration had already filtered through 
 the wards; and they waved their hands to the 
 brave American colonel with the white mous-
 
 THE FLAG 313 
 
 tache, stern visage, and tender heart, and in 
 sturdy English and voluble French and mu- 
 sical Italian, they congratulated him and his 
 noble grandson, and the charming ladies of his 
 family, on the splendid words of his President, 
 to which words the patriotic Congress would 
 surely respond. 
 
 And Congress did respond. The Senate on 
 April 4, and the House on April 6, by over- 
 whelming majorities, passed a resolution in full 
 accordance with the President's recommenda- 
 tion, declaring that a state of war had been 
 thrust upon the United States by the German 
 government, and authorizing and directing the 
 President "to employ the entire naval and mili- 
 tary forces of the United States, and the re- 
 sources of the government, to carry on war 
 against the Imperial German government." 
 
 Colonel Richard Butler was at last content. 
 
 "I am proud of my country," he declared, 
 "and of my President and Congress. I have 
 cabled the congressman from my district to 
 tender my congratulations to Mr. Wilson, and 
 to offer my services anew in whatever capacity 
 my government can use them."
 
 314 THE FLAG 
 
 If he had favored the Allied cause before go- 
 ing abroad he was now thrice the partisan that 
 he had been. For he had seen France. He 
 had seen her, bled white in her heroic endeavor 
 to drive the invader from her soil. He had 
 seen her ruined homes, and cities, and temples 
 of art. He had seen her women and her aged 
 fathers and her young children doing the work 
 of her able-bodied men who were on the fight- 
 ing line, replacing those hundreds of thou- 
 sands who were lying in heroes' graves. He 
 had been, by special favor, taken to the front, 
 where he had seen the still grimmer visage of 
 war, had caught a glimpse of life in the 
 trenches, of death on the field, and had heard 
 the sweep and the rattle and the roar of un- 
 ceasing conflict. And in his eyes and voice as 
 he walked up and down the aisles of the hos- 
 pital near Rouen, or sat at the bedside of his 
 grandson, was always a reflection of these 
 things that he himself had seen and heard. 
 
 And he was a favorite in the wards. Not 
 alone because he so often came with his one arm 
 laden with little material things to cheer and 
 comfort them, but because these men with the
 
 THE FLAG 315 
 
 pierced and broken and mutilated bodies ad- 
 mired and liked him. Whenever they saw the 
 familiar figure, tall, soldierly, the sternly be- 
 nevolent countenance with its white moustache 
 and kindling eyes, enter at the hospital doors 
 and walk up between the long rows of cots, 
 their faces would light up with pleasure and 
 admiration, and the friendliness of their greet- 
 ings would be hearty and unalloyed. 
 
 Somehow they seemed to look upon him as 
 the symbol and representative of his country, 
 the very embodiment of the spirit of his own 
 United States. And now that his government 
 had definitely entered into the war, he was in 
 their eyes, thrice the hero and the benefactor 
 that he had been before. 
 
 When he entered the hospital the morning 
 after news of America's war declaration had 
 been received, and turned to march up the aisle 
 toward his grandson's alcove, he was surprised 
 and delighted to see from every cot in the ward, 
 and from every nurse on the floor, a hand thrust 
 up holding a tiny American flag. It was the 
 hospital's greeting to the American colonel, in 
 honor of his country. He stood, for a mo-
 
 316 THE FLAG 
 
 ment, thrilled and amazed. The demonstra- 
 tion struck so deeply into his big and patriotic 
 heart that his voice choked and his eyes filled 
 with tears as he passed up the long aisle. 
 
 There were many greetings as he went by. 
 
 "Hurrah for the President!" 
 
 "Vive 1'Amerique!" 
 
 And one deep-throated Briton, in a voice 
 that rolled from end to end of the ward 
 shouted : 
 
 "God bless the United States!" 
 
 But perhaps no one was more rejoiced over 
 the fact of America's entrance into the war 
 than was Penfield Butler. From the moment 
 when he heard the news of the President's mes- 
 sage he seemed to take on new life. And as 
 each day's paper recorded the developing 
 movements, and the almost universal sentiment 
 of the American people in sustaining the gov- 
 ernment at Washington, his pulses thrilled, 
 color came into his blanched face, and new light 
 into eyes that not long before had looked for 
 many weeks at material things and had seen 
 them not. 
 
 He was sitting up in his bed that morning,
 
 THE FRENCH HOSPITAL'S GREETING TO THE AMERICAN COLONEL 
 
 p. 316
 
 THE FLAG 317 
 
 and had seen his grandfather come up the aisle 
 amid the forest of little flags and the sound of 
 cheering voices. 
 
 Grouped around him were 'his mother, his 
 Aunt Millicent, the mcdicin-chef \ and his de- 
 voted nurse, the American girl, Miss Byron. 
 She was waving a small, silk American flag 
 that had long been one of her cherished pos- 
 sessions. 
 
 "We are so proud of America to-day, Col- 
 onel Butler," she exclaimed, "that we can't 
 help cheering and waving flags." 
 
 And the mcdicin-chef shouted joyously: 
 
 "A la bonne lieure, non Colonel!" 
 
 Pen, looking on with glowing eyes and 
 cheeks flushed with enthusiasm, called out : 
 
 "Grandfather, isn't it glorious? If I could 
 only fight it all over again, now, under my own 
 American flag! " 
 
 Colonel Butler's face had never before been 
 so radiant, his eyes so tender, or his voice so 
 vibrant with emotion as when standing on the 
 raised edge of the alcove, he replied : 
 
 "On behalf of my beloved country, ladies and 
 gentlemen, I thank you. She has taken her
 
 318 THE FLAG 
 
 rightful place on the side of humanity. Her 
 flag, splendid and spotless, floats, to-day, side 
 by side with the tri-color and the Union Jack, 
 over the manhood of nations united to save the 
 world from bondage and barbarism." 
 
 He faced the medicin-chef and continued: 
 "Your cry to us to 'come over into Macedonia 
 and help' you, shall no longer go unheeded. 
 Our wealth, our brains, our brawn shall be 
 poured into your country as freely as water, to 
 aid you in bringing the German tyrant to his 
 knees, and, as our great President has said: 
 'To make the world safe for democracy.' ' 
 
 He turned toward the rapt faces of the lis- 
 tening scores who lined the wards: "And 
 men, my brothers, I say to you that you have 
 not fought and suffered in vain. We shall win 
 this war; and out of our great victory shall 
 come that thousand years of peace foretold by 
 holy men of old, in which your flag, and yours, 
 and yours, and mine, floating over the heads of 
 freemen in each beloved land, will be the most 
 inspiring, the most beautiful, the most splendid 
 thing on which the sun's rays shall ever fall."
 
 Short Historical Sketch of the 
 United States Flag 
 
 After the war of the Revolution, it became necessary 
 for the newly formed United States of America to devise 
 a symbol, representing their freedom. During the war 
 the different colonies had displayed various flags, but no 
 national emblem had been selected. The American Con- 
 gress, consequently, on the 14th of June, 1777, passed the 
 following Resolution: 
 
 "Resolved, That the flag of the thirteen united states 
 shall be thirteen stripes, alternate red and white, that 
 the union be thirteen stars, white in a blue field, repre- 
 senting a new constellation." 
 
 Betsy Ross, an upholsterer, living at 239 Arch Street, 
 
 Philadelphia, Pa., had the honor of making the first flag 
 
 for the new republic. The little house where she lived is 
 
 still standing, and preserved as a memorial. This flag 
 
 contained the thirteen stripes as at present, but the stars 
 
 were arranged in a circle. This arrangement was later 
 
 changed to horizontal lines, and the flag continued to have 
 
 thirteen stars and thirteen stripes until 1795. When 
 
 Vermont and Kentucky were added to the Union, two 
 
 more stripes, as well as two more stars, were added. In 1817, 
 
 it was seen that it would not be practicable to add a new 
 
 stripe for each new state admitted to the Union, so after 
 
 deliberation, Congress, in 1818, passed the following Act: 
 
 "An Act to establish the flag of the United States. 
 
 "Sec. 1. That from and after the 4th of July next, the 
 
 flag of the United States be thirteen horizontal stripes, 
 
 alternate red and white that the Union have twenty 
 
 stars, white in a blue field. 
 
 "Sec. 2. Be it further enacted, that on the admission 
 of every new State into the Union, one star be added 
 to the Union of the flag, and that such addition shall 
 take effect on the 4th of July next succeeding such 
 admission." 
 
 Since the passing of this Act, star after star has been 
 added to the blue field until it now contains forty-eight, 
 each one representing a staunch and loyal adherent. 
 
 Boy Scouts Pledge to the Flag 
 "I pledge allegiance to my flag and to the Republic for 
 which it stands; one nation indivisible, with liberty and 
 justice for all."
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 FEP 1 8 1960 
 
 Form L9-40m-7,'56(C790s4)444
 
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