IV
He was sitting in one of the big windows of the southern portico looking out over Tokio Bay, ten days later, when Wiley caught sight of him and came abruptly over.
Wiley was in khaki,—a bright new uniform. On his left sleeve glowed a heavy scarlet triangle.
“I’m off to-morrow, Nathan,” he cried. “How goes it? Found your goods yet?”
“Yes,” replied Nathan. “Found them in a fine mess! All smashed together in a godown over in Tsuruga, on the other side the island. They’d been held up because of broken crates and lack of tonnage—to carry them up across the Japan Sea.”
“What are you going to do with them?”
“Sell them to the Japanese Government. To thunder with the Russians! In another year they won’t have cash enough to buy their own propaganda newspapers.”
“Nat, they’re going to have a draft at home!”
“I’ve heard about it.”
“Listen, old man; why don’t you dodge it by kicking into this thing with me? You can’t enlist out here; there’s only the Regulars down at Manila and they’re not taking volunteers. If you wait for the draft, it’ll mean going way back to Vermont, being sent to camp, maybe not getting into the scrap at all. You’re out here now, just a few hundred miles from real war. Enlist in the Red Triangle and come on through to Moscow with me. I’m going straight across Siberia. Man, it’s the chance of your life. We’ll be in the thick of it within a week.”
“But I’ve got to wait for an answer to my cable first, Dick. That much is due my employers.”
“If you really mean it, Nat, I’ll delay my departure so we can go up together.”
Nathan really meant it. Wiley delayed his departure.