“It’s awfully kind of you,” he said, as he knelt down, took off his dripping gloves, and held his blue fingers to the flame. “What a night! It isn’t fit for a dog to be out in. ’Pon my soul, gunner, I feel ashamed to come in and get shelter, and leave my poor boys in the trench.”
“Get a good warm then, and let’s thaw and dry one of them at a time. I’m going to turn out soon.”
“Sorry for you,” he said. “Brandy—thanks. It’s worth anything a night like this. I’ve got some cigars in my breast-pocket, as soon as my fingers will let me get at them.”
He had taken off his shako, and the light shone full upon his face, which I recognised directly, though he did not know me, as he looked up and said again:
“It’s awfully kind of you, gunner.”
“Oh! it’s nothing,” I said, “Captain Dalton—Philip Dalton, is it not?”
“Yes,” he said; “you know me?”
“To be sure,” I replied; “but you said that next time we met we’d shake hands.”
He sank back and his jaw dropped.
“You remember me—Grant? How is Sir Francis?”