arroll was coming down the only street on a run, jumping from one
rough stone to another, and with his face lighted up with excitement.
He hailed Holcombe from a distance with a wave of the hand. "There's
an American man-of-war in the bay," he cried; "one of the new ones. We
saw her flag from the hotel. Come on!" Holcombe followed as a matter
of course, as Carroll evidently expected that he would, and they
reached the end of the landing-pier together, just as the ship of war
ran up and broke the square red flag of Morocco from her main-mast and
fired her salute.

"They'll be sending a boat in by-and-by," said Carroll, "and we'll
have a talk with the men." His enthusiasm touched his companion also,
and the sight of the floating atom of the great country that was his
moved him strongly, as though it were a personal message from home. It
came to him like the familiar stamp, and a familiar handwriting on a
letter in a far-away land, and made him feel how dear his own country
was to him and how much he needed it. They were leaning side by side
upon the rail watching the ship's screws turning the blue waters
white, and the men running about the deck, and the blue-coated figures
on the bridge. Holcombe turned to point out the vessel's name to
Carroll, and found that his companion's eyes were half closed and
filled with tears.

Carroll laughed consciously and coughed. "We kept it up a bit too late
last night," he said, "and I'm feeling nervous this morning, and the
sight of the flag and those boys from home knocked me out." He paused
for a moment, frowning through his tears and with his brow drawn up
into many wrinkles. "It's a terrible thing, Holcombe," he began again,
fiercely, "to be shut off from all of that." He threw out his hand
with a sudden gesture toward the man-of-war. Holcombe looked down at
the water and laid his hand lightly on his companion's shoulder.
Carroll drew away and shook his head. "I don't want any sympathy," he
said, kindly. "I'm not crying the baby act. But you don't know, and I
don't believe anybody else knows, what I've gone through and what I've
suffered. You don't like me, Holcombe, and you don't like my class,
but I want to tell you something about my coming here. I want you to
set them right about it at home. And I don't care whether it interests
you or not," he said, with quick offense; "I want you to listen. It's
about my wife."

Holcombe bowed his head gravely.

"You got Thatcher his divo