"Nice scandal in your old regiment. You're well out of it."
"I have heard nothing. We rather prided ourselves on our respectability."
"A chap called Penthouse," ran on the sailor, "has turned out a regular sneak-thief. The others began to miss things—money and cuff-links, and trifles like that—and one day the colonel caught him in his room pocketing a gold watch. I believe the poor beggar was hard up—at least so my correspondent says."
At this point he noticed the pallor of Hemming's face.
"Not a friend of yours, I hope," he added, hastily.
"Far from it, but he is related to some people I know very well," replied Hemming.
"He was a low cur, even before he turned thief," said the talkative sailor, "and Jones tells me he fleeced an awfully decent, but stupid sort of chap—" He came to a full stop, and glared blankly at his new-found acquaintance.
"Thank you," laughed Hemming, who had regained his composure as the navy man lost his.
"Ah—damn silly break, wasn't it?" gabbled the other, turning to O'Rourke, "but you two'll come aboard to-morrow, and have lunch with us. One-thirty, and there's a turtle in the pot." He left the club without waiting for an answer.
Hemming and O'Rourke had made the voyage from Honduras to Kingston in a fifty-foot schooner. For passage-money they had handed over the two mules, together with the residue of their provisions. Things are not as cheap as they look in Central America. O'Rourke had navigated the vessel, for the owner had proved himself useless, and Hemming had hauled on sheets and halyards and worked the antiquated pump. But in time they had arrived safely in Kingston, and never had hot water and clean food felt and tasted so good. Hemming had mailed his "copy," O'Rourke had gone to a tailor; and now they lived at ease, and awaited checks and letters from the North. The friendship of these two had been an assured thing from the moment of their first meeting, in the chart-room of the Laura, and it had grown steadily with every adventure and hardship in common. They respected each other's dauntless spirits and literary styles. Hemming admired O'Rourke's cheerful heart, and his faculty (almost amounting to genius) for getting out of tight places. He also liked his manners, and envied him the length of his limbs. O'Rourke, in his turn, admired his comrade's knowledge of things in general, and the way in which he kept quiet about incidents in his past, without sulkiness. He liked his hasty, forgiving temper, and felt an almost personal anger toward whatever, or whoever, had embittered his life; and he considered him as well set-up a middleweight as he had ever seen. From O'Rourke, Hemming learned to do things for himself—little things like rolling a blanket, frying bacon, and pitching a tent. In the past there had always been a Mr. Thomas Atkins to look after such trifles. Also he learned that no knowledge comes amiss to a roving newspaper man, from the science of navigation to the art of sewing on patches, and the low occupation of grooming a mule. He realized how much more comfortable his life in the army, and his travelling in Greece and Turkey would have been, had he been able to turn his own hand to the things other people had left undone. His heart warmed toward his instructor. One night, while they were smoking on the veranda of their hotel, and looking away at the lights in the harbour, he told a little of his story—something of Penthouse, and something of the girl he loved. But he did not mention her name, and, much to his relief, O'Rourke did not seem curious about it. That was one of O'Rourke's most comfortable characteristics. It was really a matter of breeding. He was deeply interested in whatever a person chose to tell him, and he would put helpful questions which did not call for further confessions; but he never tried to draw a man. One might safely tell him that one's grandmother had been a cannibal, without fear of being asked any question concerning one's grandfather. If he really wanted to know, he would go quietly to some one else for the information.