“Snivisky?” “No.... Andrews, John.” “Why the hell couldn't you say so?” The man with the mustaches beside the stove got to his feet suddenly. An alert, smiling expression came over his face. “Good afternoon, Captain Higginsworth,” he said cheerfully. An oval man with a cigar slanting out of his broad mouth came into the room. When he talked the cigar wobbled in his mouth. He wore greenish kid gloves, very tight for his large hands, and his puttees shone with a dark lustre like mahogany. The red-haired sergeant turned round and half-saluted. “Goin' to another swell party, Captain?” he asked. The Captain grinned. “Say, have you boys got any Red Cross cigarettes? I ain't only got cigars, an' you can't hand a cigar to a lady, can you?” The Captain grinned again. An appreciative giggle went round. “Will a couple of packages do you? Because I've got some here,” said the red-haired sergeant reaching in the drawer of his desk. “Fine.” The captain slipped them into his pocket and swaggered out doing up the buttons of his buff-colored coat. The sergeant settled himself at his desk again with an important smile. “Did you find the travel order?” asked Andrews timidly. “I'm supposed to take the train at four-two.” “Can't make it.... Did you say your name was Anderson?” “Andrews.... John Andrews.” “Here it is.... Why didn't you come earlier?” The sharp air of the ruddy winter evening, sparkling in John Andrews's nostrils, vastly refreshing after the stale odors of the hospital, gave him a sense of liberation. Walking with rapid steps through the grey streets of the town, where in windows lamps already glowed orange, he kept telling himself that another epoch was closed. It was with relief that he felt that he would never see the hospital again or any of the people in it. He thought of Chrisfield. It was weeks and weeks since Chrisfield had come to his mind at all. Now it was with a sudden clench of affection that the Indiana boy's face rose up before him. An oval, heavily-tanned face with a little of childish roundness about it yet, with black eyebrows and long black eyelashes. But he did not even know if Chrisfield were still alive. Furious joy took possession of him. He, John Andrews, was alive; what did it matter if everyone he knew died? There were jollier companions than ever he had known, to be found in the world, cleverer people to talk to, more vigorous people to learn from. The cold air circulated through his nose and lungs; his arms felt strong and supple; he could feel the muscles of his legs stretch and contract as he walked, while his feet beat jauntily on the irregular cobblestones of the street. The waiting room at the station was cold and stuffy, full of a smell of breathed air and unclean uniforms. French soldiers wrapped in their long blue coats, slept on the benches or stood about in groups, eating bread and drinking from their canteens. A gas lamp in the center gave dingy light.