officer.

"Prosit, Barnett," said the man, in a voice like the rasp of rusty metal.

The navy man straightened up as from a blow under the jaw.

"Be careful what you are about," warned Trendon, addressing his superior
officer sharply, for Barnett had all but let his charge drop. His face
was a puckered mask of amaze and incredulity.

"Did you hear him speak my name--or am I dreaming?" he half whispered.

"Heard him plain enough. Who is he?"

The man's eyes closed, but he smiled a little--a singular, wry-mouthed,
winning smile. With that there sprung from behind the brush of beard,
filling out the deep lines of emaciation, a memory to the recognition of
Barnett; a keen and gay countenance that whisked him back across seven
years time to the days of Dewey and the Philippines.

"Ralph Slade, by the Lord!" he exclaimed.

"Of the _Laughing Lass_?" cried Trendon.

"Of the _Laughing Lass_."

Such a fury of eagerness burned in the face of Barnett that Trendon
cautioned him. "See here, Mr. Barnett, you're not going to fire a
broadside of disturbing questions at my patient yet a while. He's in no
condition."