R. JOSEPH P. CRAY followed the usual routine observed by members of the “Americans in London” society on the occasion of their weekly lunches. He left his coat and hat in the cloak-room, and deposited the ticket which he received in exchange in his waistcoat pocket. Afterward he slipped into the anteroom, where a little crowd of men were thronging around a narrow counter, exchanging hearty greetings, and indulging in various forms of pre-luncheon nourishment. Mr. Cray, who had a mesmeric way of getting served over the shoulders of waiting throngs, disposed of a small cocktail in a matter of seconds and made his way to the reception-room, where the guest of the day stood by the side of his host, exchanging platitudes and handshakes with more or less cordiality with the little streams of arrivals.
Presently Mr. Cray wandered into the luncheon-room, where he discovered the round table for four at which he was placed, exchanged friendly greetings with the two men who were already in their seats. recognized the fact with a little sigh that they were not kindred spirits, and glanced with curiosity at the vacant place on his right hand, no claimant to which had up to this time arrived.
It was a crowded gathering, and it takes some time for six hundred men to take their places and be seated. Mr. Cray studied the menu with mild approval, glanced through the wine-list and finally, yielding to an impulse of not unnatural curiosity, he raised the card which reposed upon the tablecloth opposite the vacant chair on his right, and read it: Mr. Otto M. Schreed.....
The four walls of the banqueting room dropped away. The pleasant hum of voices, the clatter of crockery and the popping of corks fell upon deaf ears. Mr. Cray's blue eyes were set in a steady stare. Gone, his morning coat, his irreproachable linen and carefully tied tie, his patent boots and well-creased trousers. He was back in the tight, ill-fitting khaki of months ago, a strange, sober figure in the midst of the bustle of life, yet living under the shadow of death. He stood at the door of the canteen and he saw them marching by, a long, snakelike procession, some singing, some shouting cheery greetings, some pale and limping. Back to the opening in the hills he could trace them, the hill which had once been a forest and now seemed as though a cataclysm had smitten it, a nightmare of stumps and of shell-holes. The whole horizon seemed streaked with little feathers of smoke. The sound of guns was incessant. The boys were on their way to the mess-tents after a stiff twelve hours.
Mr. Cray stepped back into the canteen, tasted the coffee in the great urn, ran through the stock of extra provisions, looked carefully round to see that all was ready for the hordes of his customers who would presently throng the place. They came much sooner than they should have done, a little sullen many of them cursing, pushed and struggled for a place at the counter, swept him clear of the whole of his stock. He could hear their voices: “More of that filthy chuck!” “Say there's some of those chaps at home deserve to swing!”
“What is it today, boys?” Mr. Cray asked.
There was a string of lurid adjectives. Mr. Cray looked as concerned as he felt.
“More of that bum meat, eh?” he asked sympathetically. He was met with a chorus of groans. A score or more had left the counter already. He heard the curses of further hordes struggling to get in. Then the scene faded away. He walked down the great impromptu annex to the hospital and spoke to one of the doctors. The doctor's adjectives made the words of his patients sound like the babbling of children.
“More cases of that bad meat,” was the plain English of what he said. “We are just in the one corner of the line, too, where we can't rely on stores for a few days. Curse the man who ever made the stuff, and the inspector who passed it!”
LITTLE movement by Mr. Cray's side brought him back to the present. He glanced up. A tall man of early middle age was taking his seat. The two men exchanged greetings.
“Mr. Schreed?” Mr. Cray observed.
The man winced a little but acknowledged his identity.
“And your name?” he asked.
“Mr. Joesph P. Cray,” Mr. Cray replied. “We seem to be neighbors, Mr. Schreed. Will you join me in a bottle of wine?”
“That's a great idea,” was the hearty response.