“Pollock, did you say? Tennessee family? I seem to remember the name.”
“I think so. Yes. I’m sure. I looked him up in the register.”
Merriam tapped his riding boot with the whip he had kept in his hand.
“Yes; the war’s over,” he said, “our war. There’s been another since, but it’s preposterous to call that Spanish dress-parade and target practice war.”
The two men went out together, and Major Congrieve twitted Merriam about the thoroughbred’s pedigree.
“I’ll see you again before you go. Luncheon to-morrow at the Tippecanoe Club? That is well. Good morning!”
As Merriam rode out toward the street, Captain Pollock came from one of the storehouses and walked briskly across the grounds in the direction of the office. A curve in the path brought him face to face with Rodney Merriam, who saluted him with his right hand.
“Good morning, Mr. Merriam!” and the young officer lifted his hat.
Captain Pollock’s eyes followed the horseman to the gate.
“I don’t know who you are, Mr. Merriam, or what you do,” he reflected, “but the sight of that horse makes me homesick.”