And outside, to the sea--camped in fine white sand dust, under thick stars and a hot sun--soldiers, soldiers everywhere, lounging through the streets and the railway stations, overrunning the suburbs; drilling--horseback and on foot--through clouds of sand; drilling at skirmish over burnt sedge-grass and stunted and charred pine woods; riding horses into the sea, and plunging in themselves like truant schoolboys. In the bay a fleet of waiting transports, and all over dock, camp, town, and hotel an atmosphere of fierce unrest and of eager longing to fill those wooden hulks, rising and falling with such maddening patience on the tide, and to be away. All the time, meanwhile, soldiers coming in--more and more soldiers--in freight-box, day-coach, and palace-car. That night, in the hotel, Grafton and Crittenden watched the crowd from a divan of red plush, Grafton chatting incessantly. Around them moved and sat the women of the "House of the Hundred Thousand"--officers' wives and daughters and sisters and sweethearts and army widows--claiming rank and giving it more or less consciously, according to the rank of the man whom they represented. The big man with the monocle and the suit of towering white from foot to crown was the English naval attaché. He stalked through the hotel as though he had the British Empire at his back. "And he has, too," said Grafton. "You ought to see him go down the steps to the café. The door is too low for him. Other tall people bend forward--he always rears back." And the picturesque little fellow with the helmet was the English military attaché. Crittenden had seen him at Chickamauga, and Grafton said they would hear of him in Cuba. The Prussian was handsome, and a Count. The big, boyish blond was a Russian, and a Prince, as was the quiet, modest, little Japanese--a mighty warrior in his own country. And the Swede, the polite, the exquisite! "He wears a mustache guard. I offered him a cigar. He saluted: 'Thank you,' he said. 'Nevare I schmoke.'" "They are the pets of the expedition," Grafton went on, "they and that war-like group of correspondents over there. They'll go down on the flag-ship, while we nobodies will herd together on one boat. But we'll all be on the same footing when we get there." Just then a big man, who was sitting on the next divan twisting his mustache and talking chiefly with his hands, rolled up and called Grafton. "Huh!" he said. "Huh!" mimicked Grafton. "You don't know much about the army." "Six weeks ago I couldn't tell a doughboy officer from a cavalryman by the stripe down his legs." The big man smiled with infinite pity and tolerance. "Therefore," said Grafton, "I shall not pass judgment, deliver expert military opinions, and decide how the campaign ought to be conducted--well, maybe for some days yet." "You've got to. You must have a policy--a Policy. I'll give you one."