They should have gone like heroes, with bands playing and flags flying, but the exigencies of war forbade such publicity. Instead they went in the dead of night, with lights all out so that they could not even see Old Glory at the masthead. Thus they slipped out of the harbor into the broad Atlantic.
When the sun came up the following morning, the great ship was far out at sea. It was a wonderful morning of blue sky and rolling billows and fresh wind. The entire scene suggested nothing but peace.
And best of all, the ship was homeward bound. Home, home, home, sang the waves as they slipped under the bow, and the winds sang home in the rigging. But the weary hearts of the passengers sang home louder than the winds or the waves.
Probably the two most entirely happy passengers on the ship were Pep and the doctor as they walked on the hurricane deck and watched the waves and the sky.
There were no other passengers on the deck and the doctor talked to Pep as was his wont when they were alone, and the dog, delighted with this confidence, cocked his ears and listened intently to catch every word.
“It’s a great thing, Pep, old sport, to be alive after what we have gone through.”
“That’s so,” wagged Pep.
“Those Boches nearly got us both, old Pal, but we finally gave them the slip.”
“So we did,” sniffed the dog.
“Do you know we are going home to the little woman, Pep? Home, Pep, home. We are going home.”