punishment he received for having overstayed his leave, and for
shaving his mustache as part of his plan to escape detection, both
of which infractions made him subject to punishment.

One day about three weeks after Davis had left Salonika homeward
bound, a soldier brought us a note from "Hamlin." He was on a Red
Cross lighter down at the pier, and we at once went down to see
him. He was lying on a stretcher among scores of men. His face was
thin and pale, and in answer to our eager questions he told how he
had fared when he returned to camp.

"Oh, they gave it to me good," he said. "But they still think I
got drunk. They took away my stripes and made me a private. But I
was sick the night I got back to camp and I've been laid up ever
since. They say there is something the matter with my intestines
and they're going to cut me open again. Gee, but the captain was
surprised! He said he had always counted on me as a teetotaller
and that he was grieved and disappointed in me. And just think,
I've never taken a drink in my life!"

We said good-by, and this time it was a friendly good-by. That
night he left on a hospital ship for Alexandria.

Once more the course of young Mr. "Hamlin's" life was swallowed up
in the vast oblivion of army life, and we heard no more of him
until, one day in London, three months later, Shepherd felt an arm
thrown about his shoulder and turned to find the healthy and
cheerful face of "Hamlin."

A few minutes later, at a luncheon-table, Shepherd heard his