military traditions could be assimilated, failed to live up to the strict discipline associated with the service.

"The boys did think over there, father, every time they had a chance. Of course it was wrong from a military standpoint. We were the worst disciplined but the most unbeatable army in the world. You don't want automatons in the plant; you want real men, men who think but whose line of thought can be guided, men who can feel that they put themselves into their work and can get some satisfaction out of their efforts. You are the master mind, of course; but the men would give you far more than you can ever drive out of them if they once felt that their work was an expression of their own free will."

"Isn't it wonderful!" the older man rejoined sarcastically. "My son, full of the wisdom of twentyeight years, gives his father a primary school lesson on how to handle men! My boy, . . I was the head of this business before you were out of swaddling clothes. I have studied it root and branch all these years while you have been growing up. I know what is going on in every department, at every desk, even inside every machine. Do you think you can tell me anything I don't know about my own business?"

"Yes," Richard retorted quickly; "you may know what is going on inside every machine, but you don't know what is going on inside the men's heads. I do, and unless you find out there is trouble ahead and plenty of it for the Norton Manufacturing Company!"

CHAPTER IV

T

I

WO OR THREE months after Lola Stewart returned from over-seas, she received a tele

gram from the Red Cross in Chicago stating that a one-legged ex-service man, Barry O'Carolan by name, stranded without funds, had applied for assistance in getting to Norcross, claiming that he had an invitation to visit her there.

This message recalled to Lola that part of her war service in which she had taken greatest satisfaction, for it was a case where she had been able to see tangible results. It brought back a vivid picture of the great ward in which she had worked tirelessly, ceaselessly, even hopelessly, as the stream of wounded men poured in and passed out, . . cured and ready for further service, convalescent, or tightly rolled in their army blankets. So much had to be impersonal there, for patients as well as for surgeons and nurses, that to have any one separate himself from the others was in itself an event. Barry had been the event in Lola's hospital experience.

"See what you can do with that case over there," the surgeon said to her. "He has a wonderful constitution,

but he doesn't want to pull through, and he won't unless some one can interest him in something."

Lola looked up his record:

BARRY O'CAROLAN: sergeant; age, 30; mechanician, 34th Aero Squadron. Shot down with his plane near Grand Pré. Previous occupation, big game hunter. Home address, Collins, Wyoming. Next of kin,

none.

There he lay in his narrow cot, with his face stubbornly turned to the wall, physically helpless and mentally rebellious at any attempt to relieve his suffering or to give him hope for the future. When Lola succeeded in getting him to answer her at all there was a surly resentment in his voice and antagonism in his attitude.

"Why can't you leave me alone?" he demanded, turning toward her. "There's no use tryin' to do anythin' for me. I'm done for."

"I wouldn't admit that," Lola disputed quietly.

"You nurses make me tired! I'm not a kid. I know when I'm done for. It's a hell of a kindness to patch a feller up so he can live on and starve! Why couldn't they do a good job and let me pass out as a hero for my country instead of stayin' on as a no-account cripple?"

"What makes you think you'll have to starve?"

"Think," he growled; "isn't that just like a woman! I don't think, . . I know. The only thing I can do to earn a livin' is hunt big game. Did you ever try huntin' big game with one leg? P'raps I could whistle

and charm the brutes to stand in front of my cabin while I shoot 'em!"

"I never tried it," Lola admitted; "but I have an uncle who has."

"Hunted big game with only one leg?"

Barry turned his face to her again, but his expression showed absolute incredulity.

"Yes," Lola continued; "I used to go hunting with him often. Once there was a bear that the whole county was trying to kill. My uncle was keen to be the one to bring him in, but the only way to go after him was on horseback. So my uncle had himself tied onto an Indian pony with a rope, and he brought that bear home."

"You're not lyin', . . just to cheer me up?" Barry demanded, weakening in his rebellion.

"No; it happened exactly as I tell you," she replied. "If you will pay me a visit at my home in America some time, I will show you the pelt."

From that moment Barry began to improve. What one man could do was not impossible for another. Lola spent much time with him as he convalesced, and gained his confidence. He told her of his hermit life in Wyoming, where he lived in a cabin in the hills, taking his pelts to market twice a year. His father had been a mechanic, and Lola was interested in the description of some of the ingenious devices Barry had installed in his cabin and in the woods, demonstrating his natural genius in following the parental footsteps. This stood him in good stead when he offered himself for war service. He told her of his training at Kelly Field, of his

transferral over-seas to Issoudun, of his disappointment in having his service confined to repair work and trial flights of machines, while the pilots went into action against the beasts of the air. The surliness disappeared, and before he was well enough to be invalided home Barry O'Carolan had learned how to give out from himself that crude philosophy which Nature teaches only to those who come in contact with her.

Thus it was that Lola extended to him the indefinite invitation to come to Norcross "some time," and from the Red Cross telegram she learned that he remembered it.

II

So Barry O'Carolan became a Norcrossian. His arrival attracted little attention, but he rapidly made himself a veritable part of the town. Lola installed him in simple but comfortable quarters in an outbuilding on the Stewart estate, and here the family shared with her the responsibility of proving to her ward that life was still worth living. The discouragement Barry felt over the slowness with which the Government met its obligation was offset by the interest expressed in him by his new friends. Mr. Stewart suggested that a place be found in the machine shop at the factory, but Lola explained the necessity of outdoor work for a man who had lived all his life in the open.

Lola's mother, passionately fond of her flowers, unexpectedly solved the problem when she put Barry to work in the garden. A fugitive glimpse of Mrs. Stew