“No, to the best of my belief, I’ve never seen you before—never till I came here.”
The man’s worn face worked with violent emotion—which he vainly struggled to subdue.
“What!” he demanded, in a high, hoarse key, “have you forgotten Lucknow?—and Jim Ramsay of the Seventh? Impossible!”
Wynyard glanced at him and again shook his head.
After a long pause, expressive of indignant incredulity—
“Why, man alive, you and I were at school together! Don’t you remember your poky little room over the churchyard, and how we fagged for Toler, and played hard rackets?”
As Wynyard still remained irresponsive, suddenly, to his horror, the questioner burst into tears and tottered unsteadily towards the door, wringing his hands, uttering loud convulsive sobs, and exclaiming, “As a dead man out of mind! As a dead man out of mind! Tell them to sound the Last Post!”
There was a loud murmur from the card-players, and old Thunder, turning about and addressing the company, said—
“Poor old chap, ’e’s worse nor ever. At school together”—to Wynyard—“Lor’ bless me! why, ye might be his son! I suppose ’e’s a stranger to ye, mister?”
“Yes; I never laid eyes on him before.”