He told her, gravely.  He told her many other things.  He told her about Texas, at length and in detail, being a true son of that Brobdingnagian state.  Your Texan born is a walking mass of statistics.  Miss Cunningham made a sympathetic and interested listener.  Her brown eyes were round and bright with interest.  He told her that the distance from Texas to Chicago was only half as far as from here to there in the state of Texas itself.  Yes ma’am!  He had figures about tons of grain, and heads of horses and herds of cattle.  Why, say, you could take little ol’ meachin’ Germany and tuck it away in a corner of Texas and you wouldn’t any more know it was there than if it was somebody’s poor no-’count ranch.  Why, Big Y ranch alone would make the whole country of Germany look like a cattle grazin’ patch.  It was bigger than all those countries in Europe strung together, and every man in Texas would rather fight than eat.  Yes ma’am.  Why, you couldn’t hold ’em.

“My!” breathed Miss Cunningham.

They danced again.  Miss Cunningham introduced him to some other girls, and he danced with them, and they in turn asked him about the station, and Texas, and when he thought the war would end.  And altogether he had a beautiful time of it, and forgot completely and entirely about Gunner Moran.  It was not until he gallantly escorted Miss Cunningham downstairs for refreshments that he remembered his friend.  He had procured hot chocolate for himself and Miss Cunningham; and sandwiches, and delectable chunks of caramel cake.  And they were talking, and eating, and laughing and enjoying themselves hugely, and Tyler had gone back for more cake at the urgent invitation of the white-haired, pink-cheeked woman presiding at the white-clothed table in the centre of the charming room.  And then he had remembered.  A look of horror settled down over his face.  He gasped.

“W-what’s the matter?” demanded Miss Cunningham.

“My—­my friend.  I forgot all about him.”  He regarded her with stricken eyes.

“Oh, that’s all right,” Miss Cunningham assured him for the second time that evening.  “We’ll just go and find him.  He’s probably forgotten all about you, too.”

And for the second time she was right.  They started on their quest.  It was a short one.  Off the refreshment room was a great, gracious comfortable room all deep chairs, and soft rugs, and hangings, and pictures and shaded lights.  All about sat pairs and groups of sailors and girls, talking, and laughing and consuming vast quantities of cake.  And in the centre of just such a group sat Gunner Moran, lolling at his ease in a rosy velvet-upholstered chair.  His little finger was crookt elegantly over his cup.  A large and imposing square of chocolate cake in the other hand did not seem to cramp his gestures as he talked.  Neither did the huge bites with which he was rapidly demolishing it seem in the least to stifle his conversation.  Four particularly pretty