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.”

“Maybe not,” I agreed, “but you will never write that book.”

Again there was silence, and this time it was broken by the Kid.  He turned from the window and looked toward Hamlin.  “That’s right!” he said.

He sat down on the edge of the table, and at the deserter pointed his forefinger.

“Son,” he said, “this war is some war.  It’s the biggest war in history, and folks will be talking about nothing else for the next ninety years; folks that never were nearer it than Bay City, Mich.  But you won’t talk about it.  And you’ve been all through it.  You’ve been to hell and back again.  Compared with what you know about hell, Dante is in the same class with Dr. Cook.  But you won’t be able to talk about this war, or lecture, or write a book about it.”

“I won’t?” demanded Hamlin.  “And why won’t I?”

“Because of what you’re doing now,” said Billy.  “Because you’re queering yourself.  Now, you’ve got everything.”  The Kid was very much in earnest.  His tone was intimate, kind, and friendly.  “You’ve seen everything, done everything.  We’d give our eye-teeth to see what you’ve seen, and to write the things you can write.  You’ve got a record now that’ll last you until you’re dead, and your grandchildren are dead—­and then some.  When you talk the table will have to sit up and listen.  You can say ‘I was there.’  ‘I was in it.’  ‘I saw.’  ‘I know.’  When this war is over you’ll have everything out of it that’s worth getting—­all the experiences, all the inside knowledge, all the ‘nosebag’ news; you’ll have wounds, honors, medals, money, reputation.  And you’re throwing all that away!”