When he was rolled up in his blankets in the bunk next to Bill Grey, he whispered to his friend: “Say, Bill, I think I've got a skirt all fixed up in town.” “Who?” “Yvonne--don't tell anybody.” Bill Grey whistled softly. “You're some highflyer, Dan.” Fuselli chuckled. “Hell, man, the best ain't good enough for me.” “Well, I'm going to leave you,” said Bill Grey. “When?” “Damn soon. I can't go this life. I don't see how you can.” Fuselli did not answer. He snuggled warmly into his blankets, thinking of Yvonne and the corporalship. In the light of the one flickering lamp that made an unsteady circle of reddish glow on the station platform Fuselli looked at his pass. From Reveille on February fourth to Reveille on February fifth he was a free man. His eyes smarted with sleep as he walked up and down the cold station platform. For twenty-four hours he wouldn't have to obey anybody's orders. Despite the loneliness of going away on a train in a night like this in a strange country Fuselli was happy. He clinked the money in his pocket. Down the track a red eye appeared and grew nearer. He could hear the hard puffing of the engine up the grade. Huge curves gleamed as the engine roared slowly past him. A man with bare arms black with coal dust was leaning out of the cab, lit up from behind by a yellowish red glare. Now the cars were going by, flat cars with guns, tilted up like the muzzles of hunting dogs, freight cars out of which here and there peered a man's head. The train almost came to a stop. The cars clanged one against the other all down the train. Fuselli was looking into a pair of eyes that shone in the lamplight; a hand was held out to him. “So long, kid,” said a boyish voice. “I don't know who the hell you are, but so long; good luck.” “So long,” stammered Fuselli. “Going to the front?” “Yer goddam right,” answered another voice. The train took up speed again; the clanging of car against car ceased and in a moment they were moving fast before Fuselli's eyes. Then the station was dark and empty again, and he was watching the red light grow smaller and paler while the train rumbled on into the darkness. A confusion of gold and green and crimson silks and intricate designs of naked pink-fleshed cupids filled Fuselli's mind, when, full of wonder, he walked down the steps of the palace out into the faint ruddy sunlight of the afternoon. A few names, Napoleon, Josephine, the Empire, that had never had significance in his mind before, flared with a lurid gorgeous light in his imagination like a tableau of living statues at a vaudeville theatre. “They must have had a heap of money, them guys,” said the man who was with him, a private in Aviation. “Let's go have a drink.” Fuselli was silent and absorbed in his thoughts. Here was something that supplemented his visions of wealth and glory that he used to tell Al about, when they'd sit and watch the big liners come in, all glittering with lights, through the Golden Gate.