I knew what was behind this self-introduction. The lost identity was trying to find itself; the man who was worthy of something was doing his utmost to get out of the abyss by reaching up his hands to the man who had got out.
“All right, Spud,” I said, heartily. “Put it there! We’re going to be friends.”
Silence for another five minutes was broken when a high voice recited in a sort of litany, “I’m Jimmy McKeever, traveler for Grubbe & Oates, gents’ furnishers.”
Sharp-faced, wiry, catlike, agile, tough as wire, I could see this fellow creeping out into the darkness of No Man’s Land, and creeping back with information of the enemy.
I broke in on the litany to say: “Good for you, Jimmy, old boy! Glad to know you. Let’s shake hands.”
He sprang from his seat on the outskirts of the group, but before he could reach me a great, brawny paw was stretched forward by a blue-eyed young Hercules sitting nearer me, which grasped my fingers as if in a vise. There was then a scramble of handshaking, each of the bunch asserting his claim for recognition, like very small children. The older man alone held aloof, sitting by himself, scowling, hard-faced, cross-legged, kicking out a big foot with a rapid, nervous rhythm.
It was he who, when the handshaking was over, snarled out the question, “What’s the matter with your eye?”
I told them the story of how I lost it.
I told it as simply as I could, while working in a fair share of the strong color which I hoped would arrest their attention.