to Peter and Malcolm Carr by a cousin of theirs. Being of a mechanical turn of mind, the two brothers soon reduced the motor to a state of servile tractability, although there was hardly a thoroughfare in Christchurch whose buildings did not bear a more or less permanent record of Juggernaut's frailties.

Peter Carr--big, easy-going, generous Peter--had gone two years previously. Enlisting in the first contingent, he had taken part in the repulse of the first Turkish invasion of Egypt and the heroic yet ill-starred Gallipoli campaign without receiving as much as a scratch, and having hardly spent a day in hospital. From Gallipoli Peter went to France, and up to the present his luck still held. But before going on active service Peter had disposed of his share of juggernaut to his young brother, thus, in a manner, helping to mitigate Malcolm's regret that he was not at least two years older, and thus able to share with his brother the honour, glory, and vicissitudes of fighting the Boche.

"Grub!" announced Malcolm laconically.

"Right-o!" was the muffled response as Dick "barracked" into the hut, still scrubbing his face vigorously with a towel. "Kaitiu's taken the gear down to No. 4, and the Boss wants to see you in his office at nine."

Breakfast over, and the empty cups and plates subjected to a thorough washing and drying, Malcolm prepared for his day's work.

"Post!" shouted Dick, as a dust-smothered vehicle known as a buggy, driven by an equally dusty man, appeared in sight down the dusty road.

Malcolm Carr knew his man. A large pannikin of tea awaited the postman, for the jaded animal a bucketful of water. While the representative of the Dominion State Post was refreshing, the lad could obtain his mails without having to go down to the works office.

"Now we're all right, Dick," remarked Malcolm as the postman handed him a parcel containing the anxiously-awaited inner tube. "I'll be able to give you a lift down to Springfield on Saturday. What! More of them? A regular budget, Mike!"

Mike the postman grinned approvingly as he handed over four newspaper packets and half a dozen letters, while Dick's consignment showed that that worthy was by no means forgotten.

The first letter Malcolm opened was from his brother Peter--"Somewhere in France".

"DEAR MALCOLM (it ran),

"U-boats and other noxious German insects permitting, I hope this will reach you. I cannot say much beyond that we are very busy on our sector of the Front. I'm afraid you'll be too late to join me out here, unless the war goes on for another two or three years. Our chaps are of the opinion that it won't. We are having a thundering good time, with plenty of excitement. I have a Hun helmet for you. I gained it properly, after a tough scrap in a mine gallery, but cannot give details. It's no more risky out here than it is driving juggernaut through the market-square on a Saturday night. By the by, how goes the old chariot? Must knock off now, as I have to write to the guv'nor. It is now a quarter to five, and we parade at half-past for (words deleted with blue pencil).

"Your loving brother,

"PETER S. CARR."

The next letter was from Malcolm's father, above referred to as the "guv'nor".

"DEAR MALCOLM,

"Just received a cablegram: 'No. 04452, Sergeant P. Carr, reported wounded and missing.' There are no further details, but as several of our Christchurch friends have received similar news, it is evident that the Nth reinforcements have been in the thick of it. Just what Peter wanted, dear lad! Cannot write more, as I can hardly realize the import of the cablegram. Hope to see you on Saturday.

"Your loving father,

"FRANK CARR."

Malcolm deliberately folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope. The rest of the correspondence remained unopened. "Wounded and missing"--he knew pretty well what that meant. The odds were greatly against the chance of seeing Peter again. Somewhere in the mud of Flanders--what a mockery that bright sunlit morning in New Zealand seemed--somewhere in that hideous No-Man's-Land his brother had fallen. A raid in the hostile trenches; Peter wounded and left behind unnoticed by his comrades. A man in that predicament stood less than a dog's chance. He must have been too badly hit to be able to crawl in--and the boys back from the front told grim tales of Hun brutality to the wounded who were unfortunate enough to fall into the enemy's hands. So far the Carrs had been lucky. Peter was the only member of the family of military age. Several of their intimate friends and scores of mere acquaintances had made the great sacrifice, but for the first time Malcolm realized the closeness of the Great War. Its ravages had touched him through his elder brother----

"By Jove!" exclaimed Dick Selwyn, deep in a newspaper, "there are two of my cousins, Jim and Laurence Selwyn--you know, they had a farm just out of Ashburton--done in; and Tom Selwyn of Oamaru dangerously wounded. That looks as if----Hallo! What's up, old man?"

"Peter's wounded and missing," replied Malcolm briefly.

For some minutes silence fell upon the pair. The postman, gulping his tea outside the hut, was shouting unheeded witticisms to the lads within.

Presently Malcolm glanced at the clock.

"Ten to eight," he remarked calmly. "I'll fix up that tyre. There's plenty of time before I see the Boss. I'm going to chuck my hand in and join up."

CHAPTER II

No. 99,109, R/M Carr

"You can't," said Dick. "For one thing, you are tied to your job; for another, you are not old enough."

"I'll have a jolly good shot at it anyhow," declared Malcolm resolutely. "Plenty of chaps have gone to the front at sixteen or seventeen. Ted Mostyn, for example; he's only eighteen, and he's back with two buckshees (wounds) already."

"Kia ora, then, old chap," exclaimed Selwyn. "I hope you'll pull it off."

Both lads set to work to fit the new inner tube and replace juggernaut's front off-side wheel. This task completed, Malcolm washed the dirt and grease from his hands, saddled his horse, and set off for the office of Mr. Hughes, the Head of the Wairakato Survey.

"Morning, Malcolm!" was that worthy's genial greeting. "Where's Selwyn? Coming along, is he? That's good. I wanted to see you about that section of pipe-line that has been giving trouble. Did you bring your rough book?"

Not until the matter of the survey had been gone thoroughly into did young Carr tackle his principal.

"I want to know," he began, straight to the point, "I if you could release me at noon."

"Certainly!" was the ready response. "The work is well in hand, and I believe you haven't had leave for some months."

"For the duration of the war, I mean," continued Malcolm.

"For the duration of the what?" exclaimed the astonished Hughes. "Dash it all, what's the war to do with you? They haven't put you in the ballot by mistake?"

"No," replied the lad. "It's like this. But perhaps I'd better show you the governor's letter."

Mr. Hughes read the proffered document.

"I see," he said gravely. "And you wish to avenge your brother?"

"Not avenge--it's duty," corrected Malcolm. "I can't exactly explain---- Now Peter's gone----"

"You have no positive information on that point, Malcolm."

"Wounded and missing--that means that there is no longer a member of our family in the firing-line. I'm seventeen, I'm a sergeant in the cadet corps, physically fit, and all that sort of thing. And I don't suppose they'll be too particular as to my age if I forget to say that I was born somewhere about the year 1900."

The Boss considered for some moments.

"I won't stand in your way, my boy," he said kindly. "After all, the actual work