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“When do you think the war will end, Mr. Kamps?”

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 girls, and two matrons surrounded him. And as Tyler and Miss Cunningham approached him he was saying, “Well, it’s got so I can’t sleep in anything but a hammick. Yessir! Why, when I was fifteen years old I was–” He caught Tyler’s eye. “Hello!” he called, genially. “Meet me friend.” This to the bevy surrounding him. “I was just tellin’ these ladies here–“

And he was off again. All the tales that he told were not necessarily true. But that did not detract from their thrill. Moran’s audience grew as he talked. And he talked until he and Tyler had to run all the way to the Northwestern station for the last train that would get them on the Station before shore leave expired. Moran, on leaving, shook hands like a presidential candidate.

“I never met up with a finer bunch of ladies,” he assured them, again and again. “Sure I’m comin’ back again. Ask me. I’ve had a elegant time. Elegant. I never met a finer bunch of ladies.”

They did not talk much in the train, he and Tyler. It was a sleepy lot of boys that that train carried back to the Great Central Naval Station. Tyler was undressed and in his hammock even before Moran, the expert. He would not have to woo sleep to-night. Finally Moran, too, had swung himself up to his precarious nest and relaxed with a tired, happy grunt.

Quiet again brooded over the great dim barracks. Tyler felt himself slipping off to sleep, deliciously. She would be there next Saturday. Her first name, she had said, was Myrtle. An awful pretty name for a girl. Just about the prettiest he had ever heard. Her folks invited jackies to dinner at the house nearly every Sunday. Maybe, if they gave him thirty-six hours’ leave next time–

“Hey, Sweetheart!” sounded in a hissing whisper from Moran’s hammock.

“What?”

“Say, was that four steps and then turn-turn, or four and two steps t’ the side? I kinda forgot.”

“O, shut up!” growled Monicker, from the other side. “Let a fellow sleep, can’t you! What do you think this is? A boarding school!”

“Shut up yourself!” retorted Tyler, happily. “It’s four steps, and two to the right and two to the left, and four again, and turn two, turn two.”

“I was pretty sure,” said Moran, humbly. And relaxed again.

Quiet settled down upon the great room. There were only the sounds of deep regular breathing, with an occasional grunt or sigh. The normal sleep sounds of very tired boys.