Hollister felt a lump in his throat. It was the first time for months that any human being had met him on common ground. He experienced a warm feeling for Rutherford. And the curious thing about that was that out of the realm of the subconscious rose instantly the remembrance that he had never particularly liked Tommy Rutherford. He was one of the wild men of the battalion. When they went up the line Rutherford was damnably cool and efficient, a fatalist who went about his grim business unmoved. Back in rest billets he was always pursuing some woman, unearthing surplus stores of whisky or wine, intent upon dubious pleasures,—a handsome, self-centered debonair animal.
"My room's down here," Hollister said. "Come in and gas a bit—if you aren't bound somewhere."
"Oh, all right. I came up here to see a chap, but he's out. I have half an hour or so to spare."
Rutherford stretched himself on Hollister's bed. They lit cigarettes and talked. And as they talked, Rutherford kept looking at Hollister's face, until Hollister at last said to him:
"Doesn't it give you the willies to look at me?"
Rutherford shook his head.
"Oh, no. I've got used to seeing fellows all twisted out of shape. You seem to be fit enough otherwise."
"I am," Hollister said moodily. "But it's a devil of a handicap to have a mug like this."
"Makes people shy off, eh? Women particularly. I can imagine," Rutherford drawled. "Tough luck, all right. People don't take very much stock in fellows that got smashed. Not much of a premium on disfigured heroes these days."
Hollister laughed harshly.