"It's your desertion," I suggested.

The door opened and closed noiselessly, and Billy, entering,
placed a new travelling bag on the floor. He must have heard my
last words, for he looked inquiringly at each of us. But he did
not speak and, walking to the window, stood with his hands in his
pockets, staring out at the harbor. His presence seemed to
encourage the young man. "Who knows I'm deserting?" he demanded.
"No one's ever seen me in Salonika before, and in these 'cits' I
can get on board all right. And then they can't touch me. What do
the folks at home care _how_ I left the British army? They'll be
so darned glad to get me back alive that they won't ask if I
walked out or was kicked out. I should worry!"

"It's none of my business," I began, but I was interrupted. In his
restless pacings the young man turned quickly.

"As you say," he remarked icily, "it _is_ none of your business.
It's none of your business whether I get shot as a deserter, or go
home, or----"

"You can go to the devil for all I care," I assured him. "I wasn't
considering you at all. I was only sorry that I'll never be able
to read your book."

For a moment Mr. Hamlin remained silent, then he burst forth with
a jeer.

"No British firing squad," he boasted, "will ever stand _me_ up."