“Doesn’t it give you the willies to look at me?”

Rutherford shook his head.

“Oh, no.  I’ve got used to seeing fellows all twisted out of shape.  You seem to be fit enough otherwise.”

“I am,” Hollister said moodily.  “But it’s a devil of a handicap to have a mug like this.”

“Makes people shy off, eh?  Women particularly.  I can imagine,” Rutherford drawled.  “Tough luck, all right.  People don’t take very much stock in fellows that got smashed.  Not much of a premium on disfigured heroes these days.”

Hollister laughed harshly.

“No.  We’re at a discount.  We’re duds.”

For half an hour they chatted more or less one-sidedly.  Rutherford had a grievance which he took pains to air.  He was on duty at Hastings Park, having been sent there a year earlier to instruct recruits, after recovering from a wound.  He was the military man par excellence.  War was his game.  He had been anxious to go to Siberia with the Canadian contingent which had just departed.  And the High Command had retained him here to assist in the inglorious routine of demobilization.  Rutherford was disgruntled.  Siberia had promised new adventure, change, excitement.

The man, Hollister soon perceived, was actually sorry the war was over, sorry that his occupation was gone.  He talked of resigning and going to Mexico, to offer his sword to whichever proved the stronger faction.  It would be a picnic after the Western Front.  A man could whip a brigade of those greasers into shape and become a power.  There ought to be good chances for loot.

Yet Hollister enjoyed his company.  Rutherford was genial.  He was the first man for long to accept Hollister as a human being.  He promised to look Hollister up again before he went away.

The world actually seemed cheerful to Hollister, after Rutherford had gone,—­until in moving about the room he caught sight of his face in the mirror.

CHAPTER III

About ten days later Tommy Rutherford walked into Hollister’s room at eight in the evening.  He laid his cap and gloves on the bed, seated himself, swung his feet to and fro for a second, and reached for one of Hollister’s cigarettes.

“It’s a hard world, old thing,” he complained.  “Here was I all set for an enjoyable winter.  Nice people in Vancouver.  All sorts of fetching affairs on the tapis.  And I’m to be demobilized myself next week.  Chucked out into the blooming street with a gratuity and a couple of medals.  Damn the luck.”

He remained absorbed in his own reflections for a minute, blowing smoke rings with meticulous care.

“I wonder if a fellow could make it go in Mexico?” he drawled.

Hollister made no comment.

“Oh, well, hang it, sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” he remarked, with an abrupt change of tone.  “I’m going to a hop at the Granada presently.  Banish dull care and all that, for the time being, anyway.”