“I should dislike to seem churlish,” he answered slowly. “But I’ve had my nerves rubbed raw of late, and they haven’t yet grown callous.”
“You see, it’s rather in my line,” suggested Snowdon by way of preface, “to assay the minerals of character in men and to gauge the percentage of pay-dirt that lies in the lodes of their natures. So I’ve watched you, and if you care to have the results of my superficial 40 research, I’m ready to report. No man knows himself until introduced to himself by another, because one can’t see one’s self at sufficient distance to gain perspective.”
Spurrier smiled. “So you’re like the announcer at a boxing match,” he suggested. “You’re ready to say, ‘Plunger Spurrier, shake hands with Jack Spurrier—both members of this club.’”
“Precisely,” assented Snowdon as naturally as though there had been no element of facetiousness in the suggestion. “And now in the first place, what do you mean to do with yourself?”
“I have no idea.”
“I suppose you have thought of the possibilities open to a West Point man—as a soldier of fortune?”
“Yes,” the answer was unenthusiastic. “Thought of them and discarded them.”
“Why?”
The voice laughed and then spoke contemptuously.
“A man’s sword belongs to his flag. It can no more be honorably hired out than a woman’s love. I can see in either only a form of prostitution.”