For a minute the captain faced Pollard, with an appealing look upon his face; but he ended by yielding to the stronger will, and obediently dropped back into his chair. The major came over to the fireplace, and took up his position upon the hearthrug, with his back to the fire. His teeth were firmly set upon the amber mouthpiece of his pipe, and as he spoke he punctuated his sentences with an occasional short puff of smoke. “Now pay attention to what I’m saying to you,” he began, looking down kindly upon the man before him, “because it has ‘Official’ stamped all over it, and it’s not to be disputed about, nor argued over.”
“Six years ago,” said Pollard, letting himself drop back until his broad shoulders rested comfortably against the high mantel-shelf, “you and I were good friends. As I recall it, we used to find life rather a pleasant sort of thing. But, not content with leaving well enough alone, you had to send yourself chasing away after the pot of gold at the foot of the western rainbow. Well, luck didn’t run your way: either you didn’t hold openers, or else the pot was buried too deeply to be easily got at—and here you are, back again, after having made a most praiseworthy attempt at going to the devil.”
“Is this a sermon?” asked Kerwick, at this point in Pollard’s discourse.
“No, it isn’t,” said the major earnestly; “at least, it’s not meant for one. But what I’m getting at is this: you’ve got to borrow a leaf from the politician’s book, and ‘put yourself into the hands of your friends.’ Now, we can’t map out a whole career for you at a single sitting; so we’ll simply settle the programme for the next forty-eight hours, and call it a night’s work at that.”
“Thanks!” said Kerwick dryly. “To tell the truth, I don’t feel quite up to arranging my future at the present moment.”
“No?” said Pollard. “Neither do I. But you may consider this much of it as having been already arranged: tomorrow we go out with the company, shoot in the cup match—you may win your own mug, if you’re lucky enough—then we come back to town, dine together, and wind up the day with an old-fashioned evening of yarning and smoking, up here in these rooms; day after tomorrow, we consider what’s to be done with you; after that, we begin to do it. See?”
“I wish I could, Polly,” began Kerwick, “but—”
“Oh, about clothes and things,” broke in the major; “I can fit you out to a button. We go out in fatigue, you know, tomorrow: well, when I got my last promotion, I was so tickled over it that I treated myself to a whole new outfit, so I’ve my captain’s uniform still on hand, and it’ll fit you like wall paper unless you’ve changed several sizes since last we ran together.”
The clock upon the mantel began to strike. From without, hushed and mellowed by the thickly falling snow, came the sound of the chimes in old St. Luke’s.
“Hello! it’s morning,” said Pollard, as the clock’s deep-toned gong told off the last stroke of midnight. “Merry Christmas, Kerwick! Merry Christmas, old man! Got ahead of you that time, didn’t I? And now we must crawl under the blankets, for in ten hours from now we’ll be bullseye chasing.”