you can't tell why you left the
army, the folks will darned soon guess. And that will queer
everything you've done. When you come to sell your stuff, it will
queer you with the editors, queer you with the publishers. If they
know you broke your word to the British army, how can they know
you're keeping faith with them? How can they believe anything you
tell them? Every 'story' you write, every statement of yours will
make a noise like a fake. You won't come into court with clean
hands. You'll be licked before you start.

"Of course, you're for the Allies. Well, all the Germans at home
will fear that; and when you want to lecture on your 'Fifteen
Months at the British Front,' they'll look up your record; and
what will they do to you? This is what they'll do to you. When
you've shown 'em your moving pictures and say, 'Does any gentleman
in the audience want to ask a question?' a German agent will get
up and say, 'Yes, I want to ask a question. Is it true that you
deserted from the British army, and that if you return to it, they
will shoot you?'"

I was scared. I expected the lean and muscular Mr. Hamlin to fall
on Billy, and fling him where he had flung the soggy uniform. But
instead he remained motionless, his arms pressed across his chest.
His eyes, filled with anger and distress, returned to the
_Adriaticus_.

"I'm sorry," muttered the Kid.

John rose and motioned to the door, and guiltily and only too
gladly we escaped. John followed us into the hall. "Let _me_ talk
to him," he whispered. "The boat sails in an hour. Please don't
come back until she's gone."

We went to the moving picture palace next door, but I doubt if the
thoughts of any of us were on the pictures. For after an hour,
when from across the quay there came the long-drawn warning of a
steamer's whistle, we nudged each other and rose and went out.

Not a hundred yards from us the propeller blades of the
_Adriaticus_ were slowly churning, and the rowboats were falling
away from her sides.

"Good-by, Mr. Hamlin," called Billy. "You had everything and you
chucked it away. I can spell your finish. It's 'check' for
_yours_."

But when we entered our room, in the centre of it, under the bunch
of electric lights, stood the deserter. He wore the water-logged
uniform. The sun helmet was on his head.

"Good man!" shouted Billy.

He advanced, eagerly holding out his hand.

Mr. Hamlin brushed past him. At the door he turned and glared at
us, even