“Yes?” said Pollard, as the other finished. “Now, old man, see here: you’re not to throw away my cigars in the same careless way in which you’ve thrown away your chances. They’re too choice, if I do say it, to be handled disrespectfully. Take another, and smoke it.” He pushed the box across the table towards Kerwick. “These weeds were made to be burned—but not in open grates.”
Kerwick laughed shortly, picked a fresh cigar from the box, and lighted it. “You’ll have to pardon me,” said he. “That was temporary insanity. I haven’t smoked a decent cigar, before these, in nobody knows how many months.”
“Now, as for your croaking,” resumed Pollard, giving emphasis to his remarks by an occasional thump of his heavy fist upon the arm of his chair; “I’m going to make the only comment that seems to fit the case. Which is, ‘Stuff!’ For you’re playing now with nothing to lose and everything to win. Why, Kerwick, you must see it! Nothing from nothing leaves nothing; but nothing plus something may amount to almost anything. Confound you, old man! I used to look up to you as the embodiment of grit and push—and I’ll not let you tumble down in my estimation, nor in your own.”
“Too late, Polly,” answered Kerwick in a low tone, half unconsciously letting fall a nickname of the old days. “You mean well, but it’s too late—it’s too late now.”
“Blessed if it isn’t!” exclaimed the major, putting upon the words of the other a construction of his own. “It’s quarter to twelve, and high old time for us to be sliding into bed. There’s a good day’s work cut out for both of us tomorrow. I dare say you haven’t forgotten the bit of silverware that used to go by the name of ‘The Kerwick Cup’? Well, tomorrow we shoot for it.”
Now, it might be well to mention that Kerwick, in the prosperous days when he was captain of “M” Company, was a rifleman of great enthusiasm, and of no small skill. And when, on leaving for the West, he resigned his commission, he gave to his old command, as memorials of his interest in the most manly of all sports, two trophies—The Kerwick Cup, and The Kerwick Medal. These were to be shot for in annual competition: the medal, by the enlisted men; the cup, by the active and past officers of the company. And for a number of years it had been the custom to shoot both these matches on the forenoon of Christmas day.
“Are those old things still in existence?” asked the captain, with a slight show of interest. “Really! I’d half forgotten them. But then,” wearily, “I’ve forgotten most of the things in which I ever found any pleasure.”
“Bah! you couldn’t forget the fun we’ve had together; no, not for the life of you,” Pollard burst out impatiently. “Well, the old cup’s still waiting to be won; and so’s the medal. Sergeant Harvey—he was a corporal in your day, wasn’t he?—won the medal three times straight, which nearly gave it to him for keeps. But he’s out of the service now. The cup? Oh, I’m bidding high myself for the cup. My name’s been engraved on it for three years, hand-running, and tomorrow may or may not send it my way for the fourth and final holding.”
“Ah, yes, I remember now,” said Kerwick; “both the old things had to be won four times consecutively in order to pass the title. I hope you’ll pull out all right, Pollard; I’d be glad to know that the mug was decorating your mantel. I’ll look for your score in the papers. Well, as you say, it’s growing late. You’ve given me a very pleasant evening, and I’d like to tell you how it has brought back old times, being up here with you in this way—but perhaps I needn’t. Good night.” And with this he rose, buttoned his thin black coat closely about him, and held out his hand.
In an instant Pollard was upon his feet. “What the deuce are you thinking of doing?” he demanded, placing himself by a sudden movement between Kerwick and the door. “Going to leave me, eh? Not much! You’re my prisoner, sir; sit down.”