“Is there an epidemic of some sort?”

“Well, I hope not.  But I’ll have plenty to do today, so I count on you to look after those two.”  The doctor was a New Englander who had joined them at Hoboken.  He was a brisk, trim man, with piercing eyes, clean-cut features, and grey hair just the colour of his pale face.  Claude felt at once that he knew his business, and he went below to carry out instructions as well as he could.

When he came up from the hold, he saw the aviator—­whose name, he had learned, was Victor Morse—­smoking by the rail.  This cabin-mate still piqued his curiosity.

“First time you’ve been up, isn’t it?”

The aviator was looking at the distant smoke plumes over the quivering, bright water.  “Time enough.  I wish I knew where we are heading for.  It will be awfully awkward for me if we make a French port.”

“I thought you said you were to report in France.”

“I am.  But I want to report in London first.”  He continued to gaze off at the painted ships.  Claude noticed that in standing he held his chin very high.  His eyes, now that he was quite sober, were brilliantly young and daring; they seemed scornful of things about him.  He held himself conspicuously apart, as if he were not among his own kind.

Claude had seen a captured crane, tied by its leg to a hencoop, behave exactly like that among Mahailey’s chickens; hold its wings to its sides, and move its head about quickly and glare.

“I suppose you have friends in London?” he asked.

“Rather!” the aviator replied with feeling.

“Do you like it better than Paris?”

“I shouldn’t imagine anything was much better than London.  I’ve not been in Paris; always went home when I was on leave.  They work us pretty hard.  In the infantry and artillery our men get only a fortnight off in twelve months.  I understand the Americans have leased the Riviera,—­recuperate at Nice and Monte Carlo.  The only Cook’s tour we had was Gallipoli,” he added grimly.

Victor had gone a good way toward acquiring an English accent, the boys thought.  At least he said ‘necess’ry’ and ‘dysent’ry’ and called his suspenders ‘braces’.  He offered Claude a cigarette, remarking that his cigars were in his lost trunk.

“Take one of mine.  My brother sent me two boxes just before we sailed.  I’ll put a box in your bunk next time I go down.  They’re good ones.”

The young man turned and looked him over with surprise.  “I say, that’s very decent of you!  Yes, thank you, I will.”

Claude had tried yesterday, when he lent Victor some shirts, to make him talk about his aerial adventures, but upon that subject he was as close as a clam.  He admitted that the long red scar on his upper arm had been drilled by a sharpshooter from a German Fokker, but added hurriedly that it was of no consequence, as he had made a good landing.  Now, on the strength of the cigars, Claude thought he would probe a little further.  He asked whether there was anything in the lost trunk that couldn’t be replaced, anything “valuable.”