Lacey Granitch’s shoulder healed, and he went back to his job.  He told Jimmie what it had meant to him to meet a Socialist; if he could believe what Jimmie believed, he wouldn’t mind living, even with his shame.  Jimmie gave him the names of books to read, and Lacey promised to read them; of course, Jimmie was proud and happy—­ seeing a vision of the Empire Machine Shops turned over to the control of the workers, the capitalist system committing hari-kari in one American industry.

Jimmie got a letter from one of the working-men in the repair station where he had last worked, telling him that the Americans had taken over this sector, and now there was a big shop established, and when was he coming back?  But Jimmie was not so eager to come back; working on motor-cycles did not seem a thrilling prospect to one who had held up the whole Hun army and won the battle of Chatty Terry.  Having proven his mettle as a fighting man, Jimmie wondered if there mightn’t be some way for him to get into the real army, and do a real man’s work.

He wrote a letter to the officer in command of his motor-unit, telling what had happened to him, and couldn’t it be arranged?  In reply the officer said that he would have an investigation made, and if Jimmie’s story could be verified, he would have honourable mention, and promotion of some sort.  And sure enough, a month later, when Jimmie was ready to leave the hospital, came official notice that he was promoted to be a sergeant of motor-transport, and ordered to report to headquarters in a certain harbour on the English Channel for assignment.  Sergeant Jimmie Higgins!

Jimmie reported, of course, and was put in charge of a dozen cyclists and repair men, newly arrived on a transport.  These men looked up to Jimmie as a veteran and hero, and Jimmie, who had never enjoyed authority in his life before—­except you count Jimmie Junior and the two kids—­may have had his head turned just a little bit.  But there was real work to be done, and no time for strutting.  There was excitement in the air, wild rumour and speculation; this little unit of Jimmie’s, composed of specially fit men, was going somewhere on a special errand—­an expedition, evidently by sea.  Nobody was told where—­that wasn’t the way in the army; but presently there were issued sheepskin-lined coats and heavy wool-lined boots—­in the middle of August!  So they knew that they were bound for the Far North, and for some time.  Could it be a surprise attack in the Baltic?  Either that, said the wiseheads, or else Archangel.  Jimmie had never heard of this latter place, and had to ask about it.  It appeared that the Allies had landed enormous masses of stores at this port in far Northern Russia; and now that the Russians had dropped out of the war, the Germans were threatening to take possession.