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afternoon in the summer of 1917 Walter Dreer arrived on leave from Toronto in the uniform of a cadet in the air force. He had transferred from service to service, with the result that he had not yet been sent overseas.

His greeting to Paul was, "Hello, when are you going to join up?"

"I hadn't thought of joining up at all."

Walter, who had hitherto reserved taunts for occasions when Paul was not on hand to parry them, felt emboldened by the presence of his father, who walked proudly beside him.

"Content to let somebody else fight for you?" Walter threw out.

"Not at all," Paul replied. "I always fight my own battles."

Walter could make nothing of this. "It don't look like it," he finally commented.

"Looks are deceiving," said Paul, surveying his old chum's uniform. "Take yourself. Anybody would think you had been fighting—for me, as you put it." He had a desire to punctuate Walter's fraudulent heroics.

"It's lucky there's nobody else around to hear you talking like that."

"Well, now that you're back, Walter, all Hale's Turning will get a report of my words." It was the only time he had referred to Walter's propensity for gossip. Rh