Billy did not heed him. "You've got two hours to change your mind," he
said. "That's better than being sorry you didn't the rest of your
life."
Mr. Hamlin threw back his head and laughed. It was a most unpleasant
laugh. "You're a fine body of men," he jeered. "America must be proud
of you!"
"If we weren't Americans," explained Billy patiently, "we wouldn't give
a damn whether you deserted or not. You're drowning and you don't know
it, and we're throwing you a rope. Try to see it that way. We'll cut
out the fact that you took an oath, and that you're breaking it.
That's up to you. We'll get down to results. When you reach home, if
you can't tell why you left the army, the folks will darned soon guess.
And that will queer everything you've done. When you come to sell your
stuff, it will queer you with the editors, queer you with the
publishers. If they know you broke your word to the British army, how
can they know you're keeping faith with them? How can they believe
anything you tell them? Every 'story' you write, every statement of
yours will make a noise like a fake. You won't come into court with
clean hands. You'll be licked before you start.
"Of course, you're for the Allies. Well, all the Germans at home will
fear that; and when you want to lecture on your 'Fifteen Months at the
British Front,' they'll look up your record; and what will they do to
you? This is what they'll do to you. When you've shown 'em your moving
pictures and say, 'Does any gentleman in the audience want to ask a
question?' a German agent will get up and say, 'Yes, I want to ask a
question. Is it true that you deserted from the British army, and that
if you return to it, they will shoot you?'"
I was scared. I expected the lean and muscular Mr. Hamlin to fall on
Billy, and fling him where he had flung the soggy uniform. But instead
he remained motionless, his arms pressed across his chest. His eyes,
filled with anger and distress, returned to the Adriaticus.
"I'm sorry," muttered the Kid.
John rose and motioned to the door, and guiltily and only too gladly we
escaped. John followed us into the hall. "Let me talk to him," he
whispered. "The boat sails in an hour. Please don't come back until
she's gone."
We went to the moving picture palace next door, but I doubt if the
thoughts of any of us were on the pictures. For after an hour, when
from across the quay there came the long-drawn warning of a steamer's
whistle, we nudged each other and rose and went out.
Not a hundred yards from us the propeller blades of the Adriaticus were
slowly churning, and the rowboats were falling away from her sides.
"Good-bye, Mr. Hamlin," called Billy. "You had everything and you
chucked it away. I can spell your finish. It's 'check' for yours."
But when we entered our room, in the centre of it, under the bunch of
electric lights, stood the deserter. He wore the water-logged uniform.
The sun helmet was on his head.
"Good man!" shouted Billy.
He advanced, eagerly holding out his hand.
Mr. Hamlin brushed past him. At the door he turned and glared at us,
even at John. He was not a good loser. "I hope you're satisfied," he
snarled. He pointed at the four beds in a row. I felt guiltily
conscious of them. At the moment they appeared so unnecessarily clean
and warm and soft. The silk coverlets at the foot of each struck me as
being disgracefully effeminate. They made me ashamed.
"I hope," said Mr. Hamlin, speaking slowly and picking his words, "when
you turn into those beds to-night you'll think of me in the mud. I
hope when you're having your five-course dinner and your champagne
you'll remember my bully beef. I hope when a shell or Mr. Pneumonia
gets me, you'll write a nice little sob story about the 'brave lads in
the trenches.'"
He looked at us, standing like schoolboys, sheepish, embarrassed, and
silent, and then threw open the door. "I hope," he added, "you all
choke!"
With an unconvincing imitation of the college chum manner, John cleared
his throat and said: "Don't forget, Fred, if there's anything I can
do--"
Hamlin stood in the doorway smiling at us.
"There's something you can all do," he said.
"Yes?" asked John heartily.
"You can all go to hell!" said Mr. Hamlin.
We heard the door slam, and his hobnailed boots pounding down the
stairs. No one spoke. Instead, in unhappy silence, we stood staring
at the floor. Where the uniform had lain was a pool of mud and melted
snow and the darker stains of stale blood.