"Dis...missed."

Fuselli hurried towards the gate, brandishing his pass with an
important swagger.

Once out on the asphalt of the street, he looked down the long row
of lawns and porches where violet arc lamps already contested the
faint afterglow, drooping from their iron stalks far above the
recently planted saplings of the avenue. He stood at the corner
slouched against a telegraph pole, with the camp fence, surmounted
by three strands of barbed wire, behind him, wondering which way he
would go. This was a hell of a town anyway. And he used to think he
wanted to travel round and see places.--"Home'll be good enough for
me after this," he muttered. Walking down the long street towards
the centre of town, where was the moving-picture show, he thought of
his home, of the dark apartment on the ground floor of a seven-
storey house where his aunt lived. "Gee, she used to cook swell," he
murmured regretfully.

On a warm evening like this he would have stood round at the
corner where the drugstore was, talking to fellows he knew,
giggling when the girls who lived in the street, walking arm and
arm, twined in couples or trios, passed by affecting ignorance of
the glances that followed them. Or perhaps he would have gone
walking with Al, who worked in the same optical-goods store, down
through the glaring streets of the theatre and restaurant quarter,
or along the wharves and ferry slips, where they would have sat
smoking and looking out over the dark purple harbor, with its
winking lights and its moving ferries spilling swaying reflections