CHAPTER III
The dingy little Danish steamer Elsinore passed in at dawn, her camouflage obscured by sea-salt, her few passengers still prostrated from the long battering administered by the giant seas of the northern route.
A lone Yankee soldier was aboard––an indignant lieutenant of infantry named Shotwell––sent home from a fighting regiment to instruct the ambitious rookie at Camp Upton.
He had hailed his assignment with delight, thankfully rid himself of his cooties, reported in Paris, reported in London; received orders to depart via Denmark; and, his mission there fullfilled, he had sailed on the Elsinore, already disenchanted with his job and longing to be back with his regiment.
And now, surly from sea-sickness, worried by peace rumours, but still believing that the war would last another year and hopeful of getting back before it ended, he emerged from his stuffy quarters aboard the Elsinore and gazed without enthusiasm at the minarets of Coney Island, now visible off the starboard bow.
Near him, in pasty-faced and shaky groups, huddled his fellow passengers, whom he had not seen during the voyage except when lined up for life-drill.
He had not wished to see them, either, nor, probably, 30 had they desired to lavish social attentions on him or upon one another.
These pallid, discouraged voyagers were few––not two dozen cabin passengers in all.
Who they might be he had no curiosity to know; he had not exchanged ten words with any of them during the entire and nauseating voyage; he certainly did not intend to do so now.
He favoured them with a savage glance and walked over to the port side––the Jersey side––where there seemed to be nobody except a tired Scandinavian sailor or two.