“No, you won’t!” he snorted, with a skepticism amply justified by the past. “And if you did, I shouldn’t answer; I hate letters, always did. But you cable me once a fortnight to let me know you’re living--and send an extra cable if you want anything on earth!” The taxi, which had been crawling, came to a final halt, and a hungry horde, falling on my impedimenta, lowered them from the driver’s seat. “No, I’ll not come on board, Dev,” said my guardian. “I--I couldn’t stand it. Good-by, my dear boy.” We clasped hands again; then I felt his arm resting on my shoulder, and flung both of mine about him in an old-time, boyish hug. “_Au revoir_, Dunny. Back next year,” I shouted cheerily as the driver threw in his clutch and the car glided on its way. Preceded by various porters, I threaded my way at a snail’s pace through the dense crowd of waiting passengers, swarthy-faced sons of Italy, apparently bound for the steerage. The great gray bulk of the _Re d’Italia_ loomed before me, floating proudly at her stern the green, white, and red flag blazoned with the Savoyard shield. “Wave while they let you,” I apostrophized it, saluting. “When we get outside the three-mile limit and stop courting notice, you’ll not fly long.” At the gang-plank I was halted, and I produced my passport and exhibited the _vise_ of his excellency, the Italian consul-general in New York. I strolled aboard, was assigned to Cabin D, and informed by my steward that there were in all but five first-class passengers, a piece of news that left me calm. Stodgy I may be,--it was odd how that term of Dunny’s rankled,--but I confess that I find chance traveling acquaintances boring and avoid them when I can. Unlike most of my countrymen, I suppose I am not gregarious, though I dine and week-end punctiliously, send flowers and leave cards at decorous intervals, and know people all the way from New York to Tokio. My carefully limited baggage looked lonely in my cabin; I missed the paraphernalia with which one usually begins a trip. Also, as I rummaged through two bags to find the cap I wanted, I longed for Peters, my faithful man, who could be backed to produce any desired thing at a moment’s notice. When bound for Flanders or the Vosges, however, one must be a Spartan. I found what I sought at last and went on deck. The scene, though cheerful, was not lacking in wartime features: A row of life-boats hung invitingly ready; a gun, highly dramatic in appearance, was mounted astern, with every air of meaning business should the kaiser meddle with us en route. Down below, the Italians, talking, gesticulating, showing their white teeth in flashing, boyish smiles, were being herded docilely on board, while at intervals one or another of the few promenade-deck passengers appeared.