An ex-sergeant-major. He saved my life out there. I owe him—his chance. He'll get it. The rest depends on—himself."
His mouth and eyes hardened.
"I'm not a fool, Sorrell. You know what the war was, managing men. It is no use being soft. I am not sure of Buck, but he shall have his chance. Now, what about it? I've watched you. I don't know anything about you,—but I do know something of men. If you think my job is better than the one—there."
Sorrell sat very still, with his clasped hands between his knees.
"Wait. I'll tell you my history. I have nothing much to be ashamed of."
He told it.
"That's that. My job—is my job for the boy. It's my centre-board—my sheet-anchor. If you offer me this chance I'll do my best to see that you don't regret it."
"Second porter?"
"I realize that. I have learnt a lot—there."
Roland smiled.
"At least you have learnt how—not—to do it. But—remember—it's an adventure. I may go under. I want people"
Sorrell nodded a grave head.
"I understand. You want helpers—not merely employees. Ishall be a helper. You have given me—a chance—a chance to get out of hell. I'm grateful."
They gripped hands.
"Gratitude! They say that gratitude is a slave virtue."
"Call it good will, Mr. Roland."
"Ah, that's it,—every time."
Sorrell was crossing the Market Square, and he paused by the market cross to look back at the cathedral and its trees. He felt happy, most extraordinarily happy. It was not only the sudden, pleasant human relationship that had opened before him that had cheered him, but the feeling of self-congratulation. The fact that Roland should have
