poetry I ever learned was ‘God save the King,’ and but one verse of that.”
“Ugh! that isn’t poetry, sergeant,” Rolfe retorted. “That’s nothing but doggerel.”
“It may be as you say, Tom, but there’s something in it, for all that, which stirs the heart. The singing of that kept the spirit of loyalty alive in this country, and sent hundreds of thousands of men overseas during the Great War. It sent me, anyway, and brought me back again to the north to serve the King when the war was over. You may read and quote poetry all you like, Tom, but the finest poetry, to my way of thinking, is found in worthy deeds of service. I can’t sing a note of the National Anthem, and yet, perhaps, my work up here in trying to carry out true British justice is worth something. I hope so, at any rate.”
The constable was surprised at this outburst, for the sergeant was a man of few words. He made no comment, however, but rose to his feet and piled more wood upon the fire. What his thoughts were, he kept to himself as he sat and watched the leaping flames and the sparks dancing and circling up into the darkness. Marion and North sat upon the opposite side near each other. Occasionally he glanced toward them as they conversed together in low tones. A longing was entering his own heart for the love and confidence of such a woman as Marion Brisbane. Hitherto, he had thought little about it, being content with his wandering life. But now he felt indescribably lonely. He seized a stick and stirred the fire, which did not at all need stirring. Then his pent-up feelings had to be given expression. He again rose to his feet, and looking over at his companions began:
