es, Austria-Hungary declared war on Servia today. It had to come. As
our Viennese will tell you the Servians are a race of murderers. They
murdered their own king, and now they have murdered our Archduke and
Archduchess, heaping another sorrow upon the head of our aged emperor.
We will finish them in a week."

John remembered some words of Burke about no one being able to indict a
whole nation, and he was about to quote them, but second thought kept
him silent. He must not argue with a people, perhaps justly infuriated
about what was no business of his. He remained with Kempner, but
sensitive and quick to receive impressions he soon concluded that the
young Austrian wished to be alone. Perhaps he, too, was going to the
war, and would soon have to tell his people good-by. That might account
for his absent manner.

John, as soon as he conveniently could, gave an excuse and turned away.
Kempner was polite, but did not seek to detain him. The American
returned to his hotel, but at the first crossing looked back. He saw the
form of Kempner disappearing into a narrow alley. "Taking a short cut
home," said John to himself, "and it's what I ought to do, too. I've no
business wandering about a strange city at such a time."

The same sleepy porter nodded to him, as he passed in and asked him no
questions. Now slumber came quickly and he did not awake for breakfast,
until Mr. Anson had pounded long and heavily on his door.

"Get up, John!" he cried. "Here's your uncle to see you, and you a
sluggard, lying abed this late!"

John sprang up at the announcement of his uncle's presence. Sleep still
lay heavy on his eyelids, and he was in a mental daze, but by the time
he reached the door he had come out of it. They had not looked for his
uncle the night before, owing to the lateness of the hour, although they
were sure that he was stopping at the same hotel.

"Just a moment," he exclaimed, and without waiting to dress he opened
the door, admitting the stalwart figure of the Senator, who hurried in
to greet his favorite nephew.

"Jackie, my lad," he cried in a loud voice which had become oratorical
from much use on the stump. "The sight of you is good for weak eyes. I'm
always glad to see any American, any member of the finest race on God's
earth, but I'm particularly glad to see you--they do say you look like
me when I was a boy--although I'm bound to tell you that you're more
than half asleep, on this your first morning in Vien