“Constable Redmond, Sir!” announced the deep-throated, rumbling bass of the sergeant-major; and for some seconds George gazed at the silvery hair and wide bowed shoulders of the seated figure in front of him, who continued his perusal of some type-written sheets of foolscap, as if unaware of any interruption.  Elsewhere have the kindly personality and eccentricities of Captain Richard Bargrave been described; “but that,” as Kipling says, “is another story.”

Presently the papers were cast aside, the bowed shoulders in the splendidly-cut blue-serge uniform squared back in the chair, and Redmond found himself being scrutinized intently by the all-familiar bronzed old aristocratic countenance, with its sweeping fair moustache.  Involuntarily he stiffened, though his eyes, momentarily overpowered by the intensity of that keen gaze, strayed to the level of his superior’s breast and focussed themselves upon two campaign ribbons there, “North-West Rebellion” and “Ashantee” decorations.

Suddenly the thin, high, cultured voice addressed him—­whimsically—­sarcastic but not altogether unkindly: 

“The Sergeant-Major”—­the gold-rimmed pince-nez were swung to an elevation indicating that individual and the fair moustache was twirled pensively—­“the Sergeant-Major reports that—­er—­for the past six months you have been conducting yourself around the Post with fair average”—­the suave tones hardened—­“that you have wisely refrained from indulging your youthful fancies in any more such—­er—­dam-fool antics, Sir, as characterized your merry but brief career at the Gleichen detachment, so—­er—­I have decided to give you another chance.  I have here”—­he fumbled through some papers—­“a request from Sergeant Slavin for another man at Davidsburg.  I am transferring you there.  Slavin—­er—­damn the man! damn the man! what’s wrong with him, Sergeant-Major? . . .  Two men have I sent him in as many months, and both of ’em, after a few days there, on some flimsy pretext or another, applied for transfers to other detachments.  Good men, too.  If this occurs again—­damme!”—­he glared at his subordinate—­“I’ll—­er—­bring that Irish ‘ginthleman’ into the Post for a summary explanation.  Wire him of this man’s transfer! . . .  All right, Sergeant-Major!”

“About-turrn!—­quick-march!” growled again the bass voice of the senior non-com; and he kept step behind George into the passage.  “Here’s your transport requisition, Redmond.  Now—­take a tumble to yourself, my lad—­on this detachment.  You’re getting what ‘Father’ don’t give to many—­a second chance.  Good-bye!”

George gripped the proffered hand and looked full into the kindly, meaning eyes.  “Good-bye, S.M.!” he said huskily, “Thanks!”

Westward, the train puffed its way slowly along a slight, but continual up-grade through the foothills, following more or less the winding course of the Bow River.  Despite the cold, clear brilliance of the day, seen under winter conditions the landscape on either side of the track presented a rather forlorn, dreary picture.  So it appeared to George, anyway, as he gazed out of the window at the vast, spreading, white-carpeted valley, the monotonous aspect of which was only occasionally relieved by sparsely-dotted ranches, small wayside stations, or when they thundered across high trestle bridges over the partly-frozen, black, steaming river.