He was at the base, with the
supplies, the sick, and the skulkers.
It was cruelly hot. The heat-waves flashed over the sea until the
transports in the harbor quivered like pictures on a biograph. From
the refuse of company kitchens, from reeking huts, from thousands of
empty cans, rose foul, enervating odors, which deadened the senses
like a drug. The atmosphere steamed with a heavy, moist humidity.
Channing staggered and sank down suddenly on a pile of railroad-ties
in front of the commissary's depot. There were some Cubans seated
near him, dividing their Government rations, and the sight reminded
him that he had had nothing to eat. He walked over to the wide door
of the freight-depot, where a white-haired, kindly faced, and
perspiring officer was, with his own hands, serving out canned beef
to a line of Cubans. The officer's flannel shirt was open at the
throat. The shoulder-straps of a colonel were fastened to it by
safety-pins. Channing smiled at him uneasily.
"Could I draw on you for some rations?" he asked. "I'm from the Three
Friends. I'm not one of their regular accredited correspondents," he
added, conscientiously, "I'm just helping them for to-day.
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