She turned to the man at her side.
"Look!" she said, and pointed seawards with her finger.
A convoy of vessels was standing out to sea framed in the
smoke-blurs of the escorting destroyers. Ugly, weatherbeaten
craft were the steamers with trails of smoke blown out in the
breeze behind them. They rode the sea's highway with confidence,
putting their trust in the unseen power that swept the road clear
for them.
"Transports, aren't they?" asked the man.
But he scarcely looked at the transports. He was watching the
gleam of the sun on the girl's brown hair and contrasting the
deep gray of her eyes with the ever-changing hues of the sea.
"Yes," replied the girl. "It's the third day they've gone across!
By this time next week there'll be ten fresh divisions in France.
How secure they look steaming along! And to think they owe it all
to you!"
The man laughed and flushed up.
"From the strictly professional standpoint the less said about me
the better," he said.
"What nonsense you talk!" cried the girl. "When the Chief was
down to see me yesterday, he spoke of nothing but you. 'They beat
him, but he won out!' he said, 'they shook him off but he went
back and found 'em!' He told me it was a case of grit versus
violence--and grit won.
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