Ranson came into the army at the time of the Spanish war because it promised a new form of excitement, and because everybody else he knew had gone into it too.  As the son of his father he was made an adjutant-general of volunteers with the rank of captain, and unloaded on the staff of a Southern brigadier, who was slated never to leave Charleston.  But Ranson suspected this, and, after telegraphing his father for three days, was attached to the Philippines contingent and sailed from San Francisco in time to carry messages through the surf when the volunteers moved upon Manila.  More cabling at the cost of many Mexican dollars caused him to be removed from the staff, and given a second lieutenancy in a volunteer regiment, and for two years he pursued the little brown men over the paddy sluices, burned villages, looted churches, and collected bolos and altar-cloths with that irresponsibility and contempt for regulations which is found chiefly in the appointment from civil life.  Incidentally, he enjoyed himself so much that he believed in the army he had found the one place where excitement is always in the air, and as excitement was the breath of his nostrils he applied for a commission in the regular army.  On his record he was appointed a second lieutenant in the Twentieth Cavalry, and on the return of that regiment to the States—­ was buried alive at Fort Crockett.

After six months of this exile, one night at the mess-table Ranson broke forth in open rebellion.  “I tell you I can’t stand it a day longer,” he cried.  “I’m going to resign!”

From behind the counter Mary Cahill heard him in horror.  Second Lieutenants Crosby and Curtis shuddered.  They were sons of officers of the regular army.  Only six months before they themselves had been forwarded from West Point, done up in neat new uniforms.  The traditions of the Academy of loyalty and discipline had been kneaded into their vertebrae.  In Ranson they saw only the horrible result of giving commissions to civilians.

“Maybe the post will be gayer now that spring has come,” said Curtis hopefully, but with a doubtful look at the open fire.

“I wouldn’t do anything rash,” urged Crosby.

Miss Cahill shook her head.  “Why, I like it at the post,” she said, “and I’ve been here five years—­ever since I left the convent—­and I-—­”

Ranson interrupted, bowing gallantly.  “Yes, I know, Miss Cahill,” he said, “but I didn’t come here from a convent.  I came here from the blood-stained fields of war.  Now, out in the Philippines there’s always something doing.  They give you half a troop, and so long as you bring back enough Mausers and don’t get your men cut up, you can fight all over the shop and no questions asked.  But all I do here is take care of sick horses.  Any vet. in the States has seen as much fighting as I have in the last half-year.  I might as well have had charge of horse-car stables.”

“There is some truth in that,” said Curtis cautiously.  “If you do resign, certainly no one can accuse you of resigning in the face of the enemy.”