THE KERWICK CUP.
Elsewhere in the annals of The Third it has been stated—and the statement proven—that Major Pollard can shoot. Here it will be shown that he can shoot not only well, but also most thoughtfully.
It was the night before Christmas. Pollard was walking slowly along the street, on his way home from the theater. He felt at peace with himself and with all the rest of the world; for that afternoon, by a despairing and truly heroic effort, he had managed to dispatch a half-dozen neat parcels conveying to the immediate members of his family the greetings appropriate to the season. And this was an achievement of no small magnitude; for everybody knows how difficult it is to pick out various sorts of gifts for various sorts of people, especially when certain of those people are women, and the giver of the gifts has the misfortune to be a man—and a single one. Which will explain, it may be, why so many men get themselves married, and then straightway delegate to their wives full authority in the matter of selecting presents.
The air was keen. A light, powdery snow came lazily drifting down, only to find its whiteness quickly lost upon the much traveled pavement. A red-cheeked newsboy, whining the old, old story about being “stuck,” placed himself in Pollard’s path; and the major, in the true spirit of Christmastide, was exploring his pocket in search of the necessary bit of silver—when, full in the glare of an electric lamp, there came into sight a figure that somehow seemed familiar.
Stopping short in his hunt for a dime, Pollard stared hard at the approaching form; and then, tossing to the expectant urchin the first coin upon which his fingers chanced to close, he started in pursuit of his man, who already had passed him, and was going at a rate of speed that made it probable that in another minute he would be lost to view in the midst of the theater crowd upon the sidewalk.
A few rapid strides brought the major to his side, and a last, quick glance satisfied him that he had not been mistaken. “Hello, Kerwick,” said he, laying his hand upon the shoulder of the other. “Thought I couldn’t be wrong. Well, well! I’m more than glad to see you back again.”
At the sound of Pollard’s voice the man stopped and shrank away. He had been walking rapidly along, with head lowered and eyes fixed upon the ground, as if to avoid any chance recognition. He wore no overcoat, and the collar of his shiny, black cutaway was turned up to protect his throat from the biting night air. Taken as a whole, he was not a cheerful object to contemplate.
“Ah, it’s you, Pollard, is it?” he said, with a side glance at the major. “How are you? I’m just back from the West today. Nasty night, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” assented Pollard, noting that his ill-conditioned friend could with difficulty keep from shivering; “too nasty for making visits on the curbstone. I’m just going to raid some place for oysters and other hot things. You’ll join me, Captain?”
At the sound of this title the other drew himself up a bit; but in an instant he fell back a pace, flushing painfully. “Join you?” he said bitterly, thrusting his benumbed hands deeply into his trousers’ pockets; “join you! Good God, Pollard, look at me!”