“Toby!—Toby Selwyn—by all that’s splendid!” It was years since I had seen him, but in this dreary desert of uninteresting people he came like an angel of companionship, and I welcomed him with delight. “Sit down, man. Have a drink!”
He did so, ordered a whisky-and-soda from the hovering waiter. I looked at him as one looks at an acquaintance of old times, seeking for changes. I had not seen him since the Armistice, when our squadron of fighting scouts was demobilized and a cheery crowd of daredevil pilots was dispersed to the four quarters of the globe.
He had not greatly altered. His face was a little thinner, more mature. His hair was still the same wild red mop. His eyes—peculiar in that when he opened them upon you, you saw the whites all round the pupil—had still that strange look in them, as though somewhere deep down in them his soul was like a caged animal, supicious and restless, which I so well remembered. The reason for his nickname jumped back into my mind. It was from his little trick of suddenly and disconcertingly going “mad dog,” not only when he swooped down, against any sort of odds, upon a covey of Huns, but in the mess. Some one had called him “Mad dog;” it had been affectionately softened to “dog Toby;” and “Toby” he remained.
“And what on earth are you doing here?” I asked.
He smiled grimly.
“Earning my living, old bean. Introducing all the grocers in England to the poetry of flying, at ten bob a head.”
“So that was your machine I saw going up and down the sea-front today?”
“It was. Five-minute trips—two bob a minute, and cheap at the price. Had to do something, you know. So I hit on this. There are worse things. Put my last cent into buying the machine—ex-Government, of course. She’s a topping bus!” His voice freshened suddenly with enthusiasm. “It’s almost a shame to use her for hacking up and down like this. You must come and have a look at her.”
“Thanks,” I replied, “I’d like to, but—”