Well, that was not “the Wheelers’ way.”  The Wheelers were terribly afraid of poking themselves in where they weren’t wanted, of pushing their way into a crowd where they didn’t belong.  And they were even more afraid of doing anything that might look affected or “romantic.”  They couldn’t let themselves adopt a conspicuous, much less a picturesque course of action, unless it was all in the day’s work.  Well, History had condescended to such as he; this whole brilliant adventure had become the day’s work.  He had got into it after all, along with Victor and the Marine and other fellows who had more imagination and self-confidence in the first place.  Three years ago he used to sit moping by the windmill because he didn’t see how a Nebraska farmer boy had any “call,” or, indeed, any way, to throw himself into the struggle in France.  He used enviously to read about Alan Seeger and those fortunate American boys who had a right to fight for a civilization they knew.

But the miracle had happened; a miracle so wide in its amplitude that the Wheelers,—­all the Wheelers and the roughnecks and the low-brows were caught up in it.  Yes, it was the rough-necks’ own miracle, all this; it was their golden chance.  He was in on it, and nothing could hinder or discourage him unless he were put over the side himself—­which was only a way of joking, for that was a possibility he never seriously considered.  The feeling of purpose, of fateful purpose, was strong in his breast.

IX

“Look at this, Doctor!” Claude caught Dr. Trueman on his way from breakfast and handed him a written notice, signed D. T. Micks, Chief Steward.  It stated that no more eggs or oranges could be furnished to patients, as the supply was exhausted.

The doctor squinted at the paper.  “I’m afraid that’s your patient’s death warrant.  You’ll never be able to keep him going on anything else.  Why don’t you go and talk it over with Chessup?  He’s a resourceful fellow.  I’ll join you there in a few minutes.”

Claude had often been to Dr. Chessup’s cabin since the epidemic broke out,-rather liked to wait there when he went for medicines or advice.  It was a comfortable, personal sort of place with cheerful chintz hangings.  The walls were lined with books, held in place by sliding wooden slats, padlocked at the ends.  There were a great many scientific works in German and English; the rest were French novels in paper covers.  This morning he found Chessup weighing out white powders at his desk.  In the rack over his bunk was the book with which he had read himself to sleep last night; the title, “Un Crime d’Amour,” lettered in black on yellow, caught Claude’s eye.  The doctor put on his coat and pointed his visitor to the jointed chair in which patients were sometimes examined.  Claude explained his predicament.