When Owens was in college he had never shown the least interest in classical studies, but now it was as if he were giving birth to Caesar.  The war came along, and stopped the work on his dam.  It also drove other ideas into his exclusively engineering brains.  He rushed home to Kansas to explain the war to his countrymen..  He travelled about the West, demonstrating exactly what had happened at the first battle of the Marne, until he had a chance to enlist.

In the Battalion, Owens was called “Julius Caesar,” and the men never knew whether he was explaining the Roman general’s operations in Spain, or Joffre’s at the Marne, he jumped so from one to the other.  Everything was in the foreground with him; centuries made no difference.  Nothing existed until Barclay Owens found out about it.  The men liked to hear him talk.  Tonight he was walking up and down, his yellow eyes rolling, a big black cigar in his hand, lecturing the young officers upon French characteristics, coaching and preparing them.  It was his legs that made him so funny; his trunk was that of a big man, set on two short stumps.

“Now you fellows don’t want to forget that the night-life of Paris is not a typical thing at all; that’s a show got up for foreigners....  The French peasant, he’s a thrifty fellow....  This red wine’s all right if you don’t abuse it; take it two-thirds water and it keeps off dysentery....  You don’t have to be rough with them, simply firm.  Whenever one of them accosts me, I follow a regular plan; first, I give her twenty-five francs; then I look her in the eye and say, ’My girl, I’ve got three children, three boys.’  She gets the point at once; never fails.  She goes away ashamed of herself.”

“But that’s so expensive!  It must keep you poor, Captain Owens,” said young Lieutenant Hammond innocently.  The others roared.

Claude knew that David particularly detested Captain Owens of the Engineers, and wondered that he could go on working with such concentration, when snatches of the Captain’s lecture kept breaking through the confusion of casual talk and the noise of the phonograph.  Owens, as he walked up and down, cast furtive glances at Gerhardt.  He had got wind of the fact that there was something out of the ordinary about him.

The men kept the phonograph going; as soon as one record buzzed out, somebody put in another.  Once, when a new tune began, Claude saw David look up from his paper with a curious expression.  He listened for a moment with a half-contemptuous smile, then frowned and began sketching in his map again.  Something about his momentary glance of recognition made Claude wonder whether he had particular associations with the air,—­melancholy, but beautiful, Claude thought.  He got up and went over to change the record himself this time.  He took out the disk, and holding it up to the light, read the inscription: 

“Meditation from Thais—­Violin solo—­David Gerhardt.”