them on and
pelted each other with the drooping table flowers.

Then Estridge went to the piano and sang an ancient song, called "The
Cork Leg"--not very well--but well intended and in a gay and
inoffensive voice.

But Ilse sang some wonderful songs which she had learned in the
Battalion of Death.

And that is what was being done when a waiter knocked and asked
whether they might desire to order breakfast.

That ended it. The hour of parting had arrived.

No longer bored with one another, they shook hands cordially,
regretfully.

* * * * *

It was not a very long time, as time is computed, before these four
met again.

CHAPTER III

The dingy little Danish steamer _Elsinore_ passed in at dawn, her
camouflage obscured by sea-salt, her few passengers still prostrated
from the long battering administered by the giant seas of the northern
route.

A lone Yankee soldier was aboard--an indignant lieutenant of infantry
named Shotwell--sent home from a fighting regiment to instruct the
ambitious rookie at Camp Upton.

He had hailed his assignment with delight, thankfully rid himself of
his cooties, reported in Paris, reported in London; received orders to
depart via Denmark; and, his mission there fullfilled, he had sailed
on the _Elsinore_, already disenchanted with his job and longing to be
back with his regiment.

And now, surly from sea-sickness, worried by peace rumours, but still
believing that the war would last another year and hopeful of getting
back before it ended, he emerged from his stuffy quarters aboard the
_Elsinore_ and gazed without enthusiasm at the minarets of Coney
Island, now visible off the starboard bow.

Near him, in pasty-faced and shaky groups, huddled his fellow
passengers, whom he had not seen during the voyage except when lined
up for life-drill.

He had not wished to see them, either, nor, probably, had they
desired to lavish social attentions on him or upon one another.

These pallid, discouraged voyagers were few--not two dozen cabin
passengers in all.

Who they might be he had no curiosity to know; he had not exchanged
ten words with any of them during the entire and nauseating voyage; he
certainly did not intend to do so now.

He favoured them with a savage glance and walked over to the port
side--the Jersey side--where there seemed to be nobody except a tired
Scandinavian sailor or two.

In the grey of morning the Hook