ly
to John.

"I thought these men were friends of yours," he began, "and
Americans. They're fine Americans. They're as full of human
kindness and red blood as a kippered herring!"

John looked inquiringly at the Kid.

"He wants to hang himself," explained Billy, "and because we tried
to cut him down, he's sore."

"They talked to me," protested Hamlin, "as though I was a yellow
dog. As though I was a quitter. I'm no quitter! But, if I'm ready
to quit, who's got a better right? I'm not an Englishman, but
there are several million Englishmen haven't done as much for
England in this war as I have. What do you fellows know about it?
You _write_ about it, about the 'brave lads in the trenches'; but
what do you know about the trenches? What you've seen from
automobiles. That's all. That's where _you_ get off! I've _lived_
in the trenches for fifteen months, froze in 'em, starved in 'em,
risked my life in 'em, and I've saved other lives, too, by hauling
men out of the trenches. And that's no airy persiflage, either!"

He ran to the wardrobe where John's clothes hung, and from the
bottom of it dragged a khaki uniform. It was still so caked with
mud and snow that when he flung it on the floor it splashed like a
wet bathing suit. "How would you like to wear one of those?" he
demanded. "Stinking with lice and sweat and blood; the blood of
other men, the men you've helped off the field, and your own
blood."

As though committing hara-kiri, he slashed his hand across his
stomach, and then drew it up from his waist to his chin. "I'm
scraped with shrapnel from there to there," said Mr. Hamlin. "And
another time I got a ball in the shoulder. That would have been a
'blighty' for a fighting man--they're always giving _them_ leave--
but all I got was six weeks at Havre in hospital. Then it was the
Dardanelles, and sunstroke and sand; sleeping in sand, eating
sand, sand in your boots, sand in your teeth; hiding in holes in
the sand like a dirty prairie dog. And then, 'Off to Servia!' And
the next act opens in the snow and the mud! Cold? God, how cold it
was! And most of us in sun helmets."

As though the cold still gnawed at his bones, he shivered.

"It isn't the danger," he protested. "It isn't _that_ I'm getting
away from. To hell with the danger! It's just the plain discomfort
of it! It's the never being your own master, never being clean,
never being warm." Again he shivered and rubbed one hand against
the other. "There wer