"Father says it was a strange-looking procession that trudged into
barracks. Twenty beautiful, spirited horses, six hangdog-looking
thieves, with a single exhausted horse in the rear, on which was
mounted an alert, keen-eyed and very hungry young soldier who wore
a scarlet tunic and buffalo-head buttons. The next day Corporal
Black had another stripe on his sleeve." [The foregoing story is an
actual occurrence. The author had the honor of knowing personally
the North-West Mounted Policeman who achieved his rank through this
action.]
Her voice ceased, and she looked down at her son. The child lay for
a moment, wide-eyed and tense. Then some indescribable quality
seemed to make him momentarily too large, too tall, for the narrow
ship's berth. Then:
"And he fought it out _alone_, mother, just alone--single-handed?"
"Yes, Grahamie," she said, softly.
"Fought alone!" he said almost to himself. Then aloud: "Thank you,
mother, for telling me that story. Perhaps some day I'll have to
fight it out alone, and when I do, I'll try to remember Sergeant
Black. Good-night, mother."
"Good-night, my boy."
* * * * *
The long, long winter was doing its worst, and that was unspeakable
in its dreariness and its misery.
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