Their hand-clasp was close, almost fierce, and neither spoke at once.  But they looked intently into each other’s faces.  Emotion stormed Lane’s heart.  He realized that Blair loved him and that he loved Blair—­and that between them was a measureless bond, a something only separation could make tangible.  But little of what they felt came out in their greetings.

“Dare, why the devil don’t you can that uniform,” demanded Blair, cheerfully.  “People might recognize you’ve been ‘over there.’”

“Well, Blair, I expected you’d have a cork leg by this time,” said Lane.

“Nothing doing,” returned the other.  “I want to be perpetually reminded that I was in the war.  This ‘forget the war’ propaganda we see and hear all over acts kind of queer on a soldier....  Let’s find a bench away from these people.”

After they were comfortably seated Blair went on:  “Do you know, Dare, I don’t miss my leg so much when I’m crutching around.  But when I try to sit down or get up!  By heck, sometimes I forget it’s gone.  And sometimes I want to scratch my lost foot.  Isn’t that hell?”

“I’ll say so, Buddy,” returned Lane, with a laugh.

“Read this,” said Blair, taking a paper from his pocket, and indicating a column.

Whereupon Lane read a brief Associated Press dispatch from Washington, D.C., stating that one Payson, disabled soldier of twenty-five, suffering with tuberculosis caused by gassed lungs, had come to Washington to make in person a protest and appeal that had been unanswered in letters.  He wanted money from the government to enable him to travel west to a dry climate, where doctors assured him he might get well.  He made his statement to several clerks and officials, and waited all day in the vestibule of the department.  Suddenly he was seized with a hemorrhage, and, falling on the floor, died before aid could be summoned.

Without a word Lane handed the paper back to his friend.

“Red was a queer duck,” said Blair, rather hoarsely.  “You remember when I ’phoned you last over two weeks ago?...  Well, just after that Red got bad on my hands.  He wouldn’t accept charity, he said.  And he wanted to beat it.  He got wise to my mother.  He wouldn’t give up trying to get money from the government—­back money owed him, he swore—­and the idea of being turned down at home seemed to obsess him.  I talked and cussed myself weak.  No good!  Red beat it soon after that—­beat it from Middleville on a freight train.  And I never heard a word from him....  Not a word....”

“Blair, can’t you see it Red’s way?” queried Lane, sadly.

“Yes, I can,” responded Blair, “but hell! he might have gotten well.  Doc Bronson said Red had a chance.  I could have borrowed enough money to get him out west.  Red wouldn’t take it.”

“And he ran off—­exposed himself to cold and starvation—­over-exertion and anger,” added Lane.

“Exactly.  Brought on that hemorrhage and croaked.  All for nothing!”