“I’m Benny Upsher, sir,” he said, in a tone modest yet confident, as if the name were an introduction.
“Oh——” Campton stammered, cursing his absent-mindedness and his unfailing faculty for forgetting names.
“You’re a friend of George’s, aren’t you?” he risked.
“Yes—tremendous. We were at Harvard together—he was two years ahead of me.”
“Ah—then you’re still there?”
Mr. Upsher’s blush became a mask of crimson. “Well—I thought I was, till this thing happened.”
“What thing?”
The youth stared at the older man with a look of celestial wonder.
“This war.—George has started already, hasn’t he?”
“Yes. Two hours ago.”