‘That’s the chap,’ said John Jervase, ‘as fetched you out from under fire.’
‘I have a right,’ said Major de Blac-quaire, ‘to be as well aware of that fact as you are, Mr. Jervase. Sergeant, I’ve been mistaken about you all along. Do you mind——’ he paused, and there was a break in the aristocratic drawl he had so long affected that it had grown to be a trick of second nature with him, ‘d’you mind shaking hands, Sergeant?’
Polson Jervase reached out the hand which was not engaged with the stick, and it happened to be the left.
‘I don’t want that, Sergeant,’ said the Major.
‘My dear fellow,’ said Polson, ‘it’s the nearest to the heart.’
And De Blacquaire took it with a glint of moisture in his eyes.
‘You ain’t done that to me, Polly,’ said Jervase. ‘It’s pretty near two years since you’ve done that to me. Are you ever going to shake hands with me again?’
Major de Blacquaire fitted his crutches to his shoulders, and stumped away, leaving father and son together.
‘There’s nobody seems to understand me, Polly,’ said the elder. ‘I ran my risk of getting into quod along with your Uncle James, and for a man who’s been brought up respectable, that ought to count for something. I’ve owned up to everything, and I’ve paid for everything, and I’m a solid man this minute. Ain’t you going to shake hands with your old father, Polly? I followed you out to the Crimea, and I learned where you was a-lyin’, wounded, and I’ve nursed you from the minute I found you up till now. Shake hands, Polly.’
Father and son shook hands, with no very great good will, if the truth must be told, on the side of the younger; for Polson had yet to learn a lesson or two and had not caught the art of forgiveness for the repentant sinner who was still prosperous. It is a great deal easier for almost anybody to forgive the criminal who has fallen to hunger and tatters than it is to find an excuse for him when he goes in shining broadcloth and lustrous silk and patent leather.