ly ration we get is bully beef, and our insides are
frozen so damn tight we can't digest it. The cold gets into your
blood, gets into your brains. It won't let you think; or else, you
think crazy things. It makes you afraid." He shook himself like a man
coming out of a bad dream.

"So, I'm through," he said. In turn he scowled at each of us, as
though defying us to contradict him. "That's why I'm quitting," he
added. "Because I've done my bit. Because I'm damn well fed up on
it." He kicked viciously at the water-logged uniform on the floor.
"Any one who wants my job can have it!" He walked to the window,
turned his back on us, and fixed his eyes hungrily on the Adriaticus.
There was a long pause. For guidance we looked at John, but he was
staring down at the desk blotter, scratching on it marks that he did
not see.

Finally, where angels feared to tread, the Kid rushed in. "That's
certainly a hard luck story," he said; "but," he added cheerfully,
"it's nothing to the hard luck you'll strike when you can't tell why
you left the army." Hamlin turned with an exclamation, but Billy held
up his hand. "Now wait," he begged, "we haven't time to get mussy. At
six o'clock your leave is up, and the troop train starts back to camp,
and--"

Mr. Hamlin interrupted sharply. "And the Adriaticus starts at five."

Billy did not heed him. "You've got two hours to change your mind," he
said. "That's better than being sorry you didn't the rest of your
life."

Mr. Hamlin threw back his head and laughed. It was a most unpleasant
laugh. "You're a fine body of men," he jeered. "America must be proud
of you!"

"If we weren't Americans," explained Billy patiently, "we wouldn't give
a damn whether you deserted or not. You're drowning and you don't know
it, and we're throwing you a rope. Try to see it that way. We'll cut
out the fact that you took an oath, and that you're breaking it.
That's up to you. We'll get down to results. When you reach home, if
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 cou