XIX
The sun is sinking low, a transport is steaming slowly up the narrows with the tide. The decks are covered with brown men. They cluster over the superstructure like bees in swarming time. Their attitudes are relaxed and lounging. Some look thoughtful, some well contented, some are melancholy, and many are indifferent, as they watch the shore approaching. They are not the same men who went away.
Sergeant Hicks was standing in the stern, smoking, reflecting, watching the twinkle of the red sunset upon the cloudy water. It is more than a year since he sailed for France. The world has changed in that time, and so has he.
Bert Fuller elbowed his way up to the Sergeant. “The doctor says Colonel Maxey is dying. He won’t live to get off the boat, much less to ride in the parade in New York tomorrow.”
Hicks shrugged, as if Maxey’s pneumonia were no affair of his. “Well, we should worry! We’ve left better officers than him over there.”
“I’m not saying we haven’t. But it seems too bad, when he’s so strong for fuss and feathers. He's been sending cables about that parade for weeks.”
“Huh!” Hicks elevated his eyebrows and glanced sidewise in disdain. Presently he sputtered, squinting down at the glittering water, “Colonel Maxey, anyhow! Colonel for what Claude and Gerhardt did, I guess!”
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