Two swallows, twittering, curved past the window, very near, so that Andrews could make out the marking on their wings and the way they folded their legs against their pale-grey bellies. There was a knock. “Come in,” said Andrews firmly. “I beg yer pardon,” said a soldier with his hat, that had a band, in his hand. “Are you the American?” “Yes.” “Well, the woman down there said she thought your papers wasn't in very good order.” The man stammered with embarrassment. Their eyes met. “No, I'm a deserter,” said Andrews. The M. P. snatched for his whistle and blew it hard. There was an answering whistle from outside the window. “Get your stuff together.” “I have nothing.” “All right, walk downstairs slowly in front of me.” Outside the windmill was turning, turning, against the piled white clouds of the sky. Andrews turned his eyes towards the door. The M. P. closed the door after them, and followed on his heels down the steps. On John Andrews's writing table the brisk wind rustled among the broad sheets of paper. First one sheet, then another, blew off the table, until the floor was littered with them. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Three Soldiers, by John Dos Passos