[1] After all, why not? Some one was explaining that the chief (who was a genuinely fine fellow) had come to America to raise funds for his clan. Sisson said: "He'll he lucky if he gets back to Scotland with his kilt." It was a great occasion. Fritz, his black eyes snapping with excitement, came up the gang plank from deck to wharf to be pounced on by a jolly crew. He was outwardly cool, but his engines were racing. After him came Alexander James. Pounce number two. Showers of rice clattered on a bridal pair close by, but their festival was tame compared to this. To meet Henry James and John Sargent in London: to study in Paris and Munich: to see the great galleries. They were embarking on greater seas than the Atlantic. This was the great day, the great hour, and with a troop of friends rejoicing in their good fortune to sweeten it.... Away to the land of heart's desire.... Romance.... Bohemia.... Europe. "O Youth, and the days that were!" From the caplog at the pier head as the _Nubian_ swung into midstream of the Charles, the band of pariahs bawled ribald farewells and wrung out handkerchiefs in mock tears. Alexander James, the Clive Newcome of the adventure, leaned on the teakwood rail, waving his straw hat; and Fritz, the "J.J." of the story, sat on the lowest ratline of the shrouds, feet on rail, pretending to weep into his hat and then emptying the brine into the brine. The ship's side, black hull and white upperworks, took a burnishing from the late afternoon sun. Under the gaiety there was a queer feeling. There, divided from us by a hundred yards of harbor water, were the two friends with whom we had just shaken hands, and the strip between was widening, would widen to an ocean. They stood out amid the throng of passengers as distinct as though they had been the only souls aboard. They waved: we waved. As the vessel straightened away in her course they imitated our several gestures to signify personal farewells: it was thought and done impromptu. And long after their figures grew indistinct as the ship lessened down the harbor lane between elbowing wharves and the piled masses of city towers and spires, there were gleams of two white straw hats which we knew.... All the same, it was a trifle too much like a dress rehearsal for death. * * * * * Then, in less than six weeks, a world in tumult. Continental ateliers were emptying their students on the battlefield. Fritz, who was in England, prudently kept out of the rush homeward and made the most of his few weeks. He was in Downing Street in front of that dingy Georgian façade the night the British Cabinet sat waiting for Germany's reply to their ultimatum. "It gave one an odd feeling," said he, "to realize that behind those drawn shades sat men who were settling the question of life or death for hundreds of thousands of their fellow creatures. The crowd cheered. I did not."