“Oh, very well,” said Sergeant Gray cheerfully. “You’ll be sorry. That’s all. Come on, Joe.” He raised his voice in song. “Where do we go from here, Joe, where do we go from here?” he sang in a very deep bass. At the centre table he stopped, however, with Joe’s revolver very close to him, and consulted Mr. Booth’s watch which, with all of his money but car fare back to camp, lay in a heap there. “You might hurry a bit, Joe,” he suggested “I’ve only got twenty-three and a half hours’ leave, and time’s flying. You’ll observe,” he added, “that old Booth’s money and watch are here.” He glanced significantly toward the elevator man. “Eight dollars and ninety cents, Joe,” he said. “The old boy’ll need it for a doctor.” The general breakfasted rather late the next morning—at seven o’clock. His ordinary hour was six-thirty. He had eaten three fried eggs, some fried potatoes, a bran muffin, drunk a cup of coffee, and was trying to remember if he had made any indiscreet remarks at a dinner party the night before about Pershing or the General Staff, when an aide came in with a report. The general read it slowly, then looked up. “You mean to say,” he inquired, “that those fellows haven’t had any clothes since yesterday morning?” “No uniforms, sir.” “The entire troop?” “All except those who were on duty here yesterday, sir. I believe”—the aide hesitated—“I believe some of them went to town anyhow, sir.” “The devil you say!” roared the general. “I rather fancy that the men we saw in slickers, sir——” Suddenly the general laughed. The aide laughed also. Aides always laugh when the general does. It is etiquette. When the general had stopped laughing he became very military again, and swore. “We’ll look into it, Tommy,” he said. “It’s a damned shame. Somebody’s going to pay for it through the nose.” This is a little-used phrase, but the general had read it somewhere and adopted it. It means copiously. He was not aware, naturally, that Sergeant Gray was already paying for it, copiously. It was at that precise moment that a little car drew up outside his quarters. The general smiled and rolled himself a cigarette. “Bring me another cup of coffee,” he ordered, “and get another chair, Tommy.” The girl came in. She kissed the general on his right cheek, and then on his chin, and then stood back and looked at him. “I’m in trouble, Uncle Jimmy,” she said. “If a man from the Headquarters Troop overstays his leave what happens to him?” “Court-martialed; maybe shot,” replied the general with a glance at Tommy, who did not see it as he was looking at the girl. “But if it is my fault——” “Then you’ll be shot,” said the general cheerily. “Now see here, Peggy, if you don’t let my young men alone—— What’s that you’re carrying?” “It’s a slicker!” said Peggy. The general looked at Tommy, and Tommy looked back. Peggy told her story, and showed, toward the end, an alarming disposition to cry.