Meanwhile, Ignace So Pulinski was putting in a most lonely afternoon and evening at Camp Sterling. Temporarily deprived of the lively society of his Brothers, he was at a loss to know what to do with himself. Part of the afternoon he spent in wandering gloomily about camp, frequently consulting the dollar watch he carried, in a wistful marking of the slow passing of the time. Aside from his bunkies, few of the men in his barrack had ever taken the trouble to cultivate his acquaintance. During his first days in camp they had regarded him as "a joke," privately wondering what three live fellows like Jimmy, Bob and Roger could see in "that slow-poke" to make a fuss over. After his wrathful descent upon bullying Bixton, he had undoubtedly risen in estimation. He had signally proved his ability to take care of himself. No longer classed as "a joke" he achieved the title of "that wild Poley" and was accorded a certain amount of grudging respect that made for civil treatment but little friendliness. By the time the supper call sounded that evening Ignace had reached a stage of loneliness that caused him to sigh gustily as he stood in line at the counter with his mess kit to receive his portion of food. His china-blue eyes roving mournfully over the long room in search of companionship while eating, they came to rest on the man Schnitzel. The latter looked equally lonely, as he arranged his meal at an unoccupied table at the far end of the room. Owing to the fact that it was a half-holiday, the mess hall was minus at least a fourth of its usual throng. Obeying a sudden impulse Ignace made his way to where Schnitzel sat, and asked half-hesitatingly, "You care I sit here by you?" "Help yourself," was the laconic response. Nevertheless the German-American's eyes showed a trace of inquiring surprise at this sudden invasion. "Thank." Ignace carefully set his meat can and cup on the table, and solemnly seated himself beside the other. "Too much quiet, so is because the many get the pass," ventured the Pole. "I no like ver' well." "It's all the same to me." There was a note of bitterness in the replying voice. "I haven't any kick coming. I suppose you miss your bunkies," he added, making an indifferent effort at civility. "They're a lively bunch of Sammies." Ignace stopped eating and stared fixedly at his companion. The latter's dark, rugged features wore an expression of melancholy that woke in him a peculiar feeling of friendliness. "Y-e-a," he nodded. "I miss. Them ver' good my frens, all. I call my Brothar. You speak the American good. You have go by American school?" Having never before exchanged a word with Schnitzel, Ignace had fully expected to hear the man use broken English.