"I don't understand," I said. "I thought you were sailing on the Adriaticus?"
The young man was again pacing the floor. He halted and faced the harbor.
"You bet I'm sailing on the Adriaticus," he said. He looked out at that vessel, at the Blue Peter flying from her foremast, and grinned. "In just two hours!"
It was stupid of me, but I still was unenlightened. "But your twelve hours' leave?" I asked.
The young man laughed. "They can take my twelve hours' leave," he said deliberately, "and feed it to the chickens. I'm beating it."
"What d'you mean, you're beating it?"
"What do you suppose I mean?" he demanded. "What do you suppose I'm doing out of uniform, what do you suppose I'm lying low in the room for? So's I won't catch cold?"
"If you're leaving the army without a discharge, and without permission," I said, "I suppose you know it's desertion."
Mr. Hamlin laughed easily. "It's not my army," he said. "I'm an American."
"It's your desertion," I suggested.