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-by, 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.'"