He heard the familiar rush of feet toward the dining room and he was vaguely conscious that some one had halted before his door.  He turned about.  A young man, not over twenty-five, with a delicately chiseled face, was stepping into the room.  As he drew closer Fred received the wistful impression of changing-blue eyes and a skin clear to the point of transparency.  Fred met his visitor halfway.

“You came last night, didn’t you?” the youth began, offering a shy hand.  “I saw you this morning.  I was in the crowd that looked you over just before breakfast...  What are you here for?”

Fred lifted his hand and let it fall again.  “I made a mess of things...  And you?”

“Booze,” the other replied, laconically.  “I’ve been in three times...  Let’s go down to lunch.”  He slipped a friendly arm into Fred’s and together they walked with the rushing throng into the dining room.

It was a small room, everything considered, with tables built around the four walls and one large table in the center that seated about twenty-five people.  Starratt and his new-found friend discovered two vacant seats upon the rude bench in front of the center table and sat down.  They were each given a plate upon which was a potato and a small piece of cold beef and the inevitable hunk of dry bread.  A large pitcher of tea stood within reach.  There was neither milk nor sugar nor butter in evidence.  A tablespoon and a tin cup were next handed them.  Fred felt a sudden nausea.  He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he looked up his plate had been swept clean of food.

“You’ve got to watch sharp,” the youth was saying.  “They steal everything in sight if you let them...  Here, have some of mine.”

Fred made a gesture of refusal.  “It doesn’t matter,” he explained.  “I’m not hungry.”

“You’d better eat something...  Have some hot tea!”

It was a black, hair-raising brew, but Fred managed to force down a draught of it.  About him on all sides men were tearing their meat with clawlike hands, digging their fangs into it in wolfish ferocity...  A dishpan of rice was circulated.  Fred took a few spoonfuls.  Within fifteen minutes the meal was over and the dishpan, emptied of its rice, was passed again.  Fred saw his companions flinging their spoons into it.  He did likewise.

The youth arose.  “Let’s get out of this and have a smoke...  I’ve got the makings.”

A great surge of relief swept over Fred. A smoke!  Somehow, he had forgotten that such a solace existed in this new world of terror and pain.

It appeared that the only place indoors where smoking was permitted was the lavatory, but when they reached the corridor they found a line forming ready to march out to take the air.  They decided to wait and have their smoke in the open.  Fred and his companion exchanged names.  The youth was Felix Monet.

“I’m not sure whether you go out with us,” Monet admitted, as they swung into place.  “This crowd is bound for the front parade ground.  It’s not usual for newcomers to have that privilege.”