a part of my
heritage. By that time I felt a proprietary interest in the Ella, and
through my glasses, carefully focused with a pair of scissors, watched
the arrangement of the deck furnishings. A girl was directing the men.
I judged, from the poise with which she carried herself, that she was
attractive--and knew it. How beautiful she was, and how well she knew
it, I was to find out before long. McWhirter to the contrary, she had
nothing to do with my decision to sign as a sailor on the Ella.

One of the bright spots of that long hot summer was McWhirter. We had
graduated together in June, and in October he was to enter a hospital
in Buffalo as a resident. But he was as indigent as I, and from June
to October is four months.

"Four months," he said to me. "Even at two meals a day, boy, that's
something over two hundred and forty. And I can eat four times a day,
without a struggle! Wouldn't you think one of these
overworked-for-the-good-of-humanity dubs would take a vacation and give
me a chance to hold down his practice?"

Nothing of the sort developing, McWhirter went into a drug-store, and
managed to pull through the summer with unimpaired cheerfulness,
confiding to me that he secured his luncheons free at the soda counter.
He came frequently to see me, bringing always a pocketful of chewing
gum, which he assured me was excellent to allay the gnawings of hunger,
and later, as my condition warranted it, small bags of gum-drops and
other pharmacy confections.

McWhirter it was who got me my berth on the Ella. It must have been
about the 20th of July, for the Ella sailed on the 28th. I was strong
enough to leave the hospital, but not yet physically able for any
prolonged exertion. McWhirter, who was short and stout, had been
alternately flirting with the nurse, as she moved in and out preparing
my room for the night, and sizing me up through narrowed eyes.

"No," he said, evidently following a private line of thought; "you
don't belong behind a counter, Leslie. I'm darned if I think you
belong in the medical profession, either. The British army'd suit you."

"The--what?"

"You know--Kipling idea--riding horseback, head of a column--undress
uniform--colonel's wife making eyes at you--leading last hopes and all
that."

"The British army with Kipling trimmings being out of the question, the
original issue is still before us. I'll have to work, Mac, and work
like the devil, if I'm to feed myself."