“Well,” said the Inger, “it was Bunchy’s own rope, then, that hung him. I shouldn’t have come down if I hadn’t heard the bell—” he paused perplexed. “You didn’t know I was down there, though?” he said. “No, I thought you’d be up on the mountain when I went up. I didn’t think you’d be in town. You hardly ever,” she added, “did come down.” He did not miss this: she had noticed, then, that he hardly ever came down. “When I did come,” he said, “I always saw you with Bunchy. Only that once.” “Only that once,” she assented, and did not meet his eyes. “Oh!” she cried, “I’ll be glad when we get to Washington and I’m off your hands! That’s why I wanted a job here—to be off your hands!” On this the Inger was stabbed through with his certainty. It was true, then. She was longing to be free of him—and no wonder! To hide his hurt and his chagrin he turned to the waiter, who was arriving with flapjacks, and lifted candidly inquiring eyes. “See anything the matter with my hands?” he drawled. “No, sir,” said the man, in surprise. “Well, neither do I,” said the Inger. “What _is_ the matter with ’em?” he demanded of Lory, as the man departed. “Why, if it wasn’t for me on ’em,” said Lory, “you’d be starting for war.” War! The Inger heard the word in astonishment. That was so, he _had_ been going to the war. He had been bent on going to the war, and had so announced his intention. In that day on the mountain, those days on the train, these hours in the city, he had never once thought of war. He flooded his flapjacks with syrup, and said nothing. “Washington ain’t _much_ out of your way,” she added. “You can get started by day after to-morrow anyway.” Still he was silent. Then, feeling that something was required of him, he observed nonchalantly: “Well, we don’t have to talk about it now, as I know of.” In this, however, he reckoned without his host of the restaurant. As the Inger paid the bill, there was thrust in his hands a white poster, printed in great letters: GIANT MASS MEETING THE COLISEUM TO-NIGHT! TO-NIGHT! TO-NIGHT! WHAT IS AMERICA TO DO IN THE PRESENT CRISIS The Inger read it through twice. “What crisis?” he asked. The restaurant keeper—a man with meeting eyebrows, who looked as if he had just sipped something acid—stopped counting change in piles, and stared at him. “Where you from?” he asked, and saw the packs, and added “Boat, eh? Ain’t you heard about the vessel?” The Inger shook his head. “Well, man,” said the restaurant keeper with enjoyment, “another nice big U. S. merchantman is blowed into flinders a couple o’ days ago, a-sailin’ neutral seas. Nobody much killed, I guess—but leave ’em wait and see what we give ’em!” “Does it mean war?” asked the Inger, eagerly. “That’s for the meetin’ to say,” said the man, and winked, and, still winking, reached for somebody’s pink check. The Inger turned to Lory with eyes alight. “Let’s get a train in the night,” he said. “Let’s stay here for this meeting.”