"You'll have to take the left, old boy. The right one's behind, somewhere in Belgium. Wait a moment and I'll give you my keys, Dave. I have to keep everything in my lefthand pockets, so they're crowded. Yes, I have them. I suppose that my trunk is already ashore. Do try and get a customs' officer for me and hurry the thing through."
He was talking as calmly and coolly as if he had been gone but a few days and had suffered only from a cut finger. We were fortunate in being able to get through the formalities very soon, and, shortly after, we drove away in a taxi.
"Well, Dave, how've you been and how's everybody?" he asked, after lighting a cigarette from mine.
"Every one is all right," I answered impatiently. "Oh! Gordon, old man! How did it ever happen?"
"Just a piece of shell while I was picking some fellows up," he answered. "You have no idea of how surprising it is when you suddenly realize that something's missing. But what's a hand more or less after all that I've seen? How's Frieda?"
"Stouter than ever," I replied, "and her appetite's improving. Porter recommended a diet, but she won't follow it. Says her fat doesn't interfere with her sitting at the easel."
"Good old Frieda! I've heard about your book, Dave, it made a big stir, didn't it? And so—so Madame Dupont has become a great singer again; heard all about it from a fellow on board and, of course, your letters spoke of it; but you're such a crazy old duffer I supposed you were getting carried away with your enthusiasm. Never could take things quietly, could you? Any other news?"
"Nothing very special," I told him. "The Van Rossums came to town early, this year. I—I've seen Miss Sophia."
"Have you? Give me another cigarette. Yes, light a match for me. I'm clumsy as the devil with that left hand!"
He sat back, puffing at the thing and looking out of the window.