“Yes.”
“You do not remember me?”
“Well, I am sure you will pardon me; I cannot call to mind exactly where I have had the pleasure of meeting you. Was it at the Rag? No, no; surely at Simla, was it not?”
“Not exactly,” said the new arrival.
“Don’t you remember a little idiot who was your fag at Harton, and used to boil your eggs hard and burn your toast, for which you very properly corrected him?”
“What, Strachan!” cried Captain Reece. “Impossible! You can’t be Tom Strachan!”
“As sure as you are Dodger Reece. I should not have dared to call you that to your face then, though.”
“Well, but, you know, I should never have recognised you.”
“I daresay not; I was twelve years old when you left Harton, and I have altered a bit since, no doubt. You were seventeen, and have not changed so much.”
“I am very glad to see you, anyhow,” said Reece, “and we will have a good chat presently. Just now I must not lose my opportunity; the rocks seem pretty crowded. The beggars are blazing away from every crevice about them.”