I was scared. I expected the lean and muscular Mr. Hamlin to fall on Billy, and fling him where he had flung the soggy uniform. But instead he remained motionless, his arms pressed across his chest. His eyes, filled with anger and distress, returned to the _Adriaticus_. "I'm sorry," muttered the Kid. John rose and motioned to the door, and guiltily and only too gladly we escaped. John followed us into the hall. "Let _me_ talk to him," he whispered. "The boat sails in an hour. Please don't come back until she's gone." We went to the moving picture palace next door, but I doubt if the thoughts of any of us were on the pictures. For after an hour, when from across the quay there came the long-drawn warning of a steamer's whistle, we nudged each other and rose and went out. Not a hundred yards from us the propeller blades of the _Adriaticus_ were slowly churning, and the rowboats were falling away from her sides. "Good-by, Mr. Hamlin," called Billy. "You had everything and you chucked it away. I can spell your finish. It's 'check' for _yours_." But when we entered our room, in the centre of it, under the bunch of electric lights, stood the deserter. He wore the water-logged uniform. The sun helmet was on his head. "Good man!" shouted Billy. He advanced, eagerly holding out his hand. Mr. Hamlin brushed past him. At the door he turned and glared at us, even at John. He was not a good loser. "I hope you're satisfied," he snarled. He pointed at the four beds in a row. I felt guiltily conscious of them. At the moment they appeared so unnecessarily clean and warm and soft. The silk coverlets at the foot of each struck me as being disgracefully effeminate. They made me ashamed. "I hope," said Mr. Hamlin, speaking slowly and picking his words, "when you turn into those beds to-night you'll think of me in the mud. I hope when you're having your five-course dinner and your champagne you'll remember my bully beef. I hope when a shell or Mr. Pneumonia gets me, you'll write a nice little sob story about the 'brave lads in the trenches.'" He looked at us, standing like schoolboys, sheepish, embarrassed, and silent, and then threw open the door. "I hope," he added, "you all choke!" With an unconvincing imitation of the college chum manner, John cleared his throat and said: "Don't forget, Fred, if there's anything I can do----" Hamlin stood in the doorway smiling at us. "There's something you can all do," he said. "Yes?" asked John heartily "You can all go to hell!" said Mr. Hamlin. We heard the door slam, and his hobnailed boots pounding down the stairs. No one spoke. Instead, in unhappy silence, we stood staring at the floor. Where the uniform had lain was a pool of mud and melted snow and the darker stains of stale blood.