“By the way,” remarked Doggie, “you haven’t told me why you became a soldier.”
“Chance,” replied Phineas. “I have been going down in the world for some time, and no one seemed to want me except my country. She clamored for me at every corner. A recruiting sergeant in Trafalgar Square at last persuaded me to take the leap. That’s how I became Private Phineas McPhail of the Tenth Wessex Rangers, at the compensation of one shilling and two pence per day.”
“Do you like it?” asked Doggie.
Phineas rubbed the side of his nose thoughtfully.
“In itself it is a vile life,” he made answer. “The hours are absurd, the work is distasteful, and the mode of living repulsive. But it contents me. The secret of happiness lies in adapting one’s self to conditions. I adapt myself wherever I happen to be. And now, may I, without impertinent curiosity, again ask what you meant when you said you had come down to bed-rock?”
All of Doggie’s rage and shame flared up at the question.
“I’ve been thrown out of the army!” he cried. “I’m here in hiding—hiding from my family and the decent folk I’m ashamed to meet!”
“Tell me all about it, laddie,” urged Phineas, gently.
Then Doggie broke down, and with a gush of unminded tears found expression for his stony despair. His story took a long time in the telling, and Phineas interjected a sympathetic “Ay, ay,” from time to time.
“And now,” cried Doggie, his young face distorted and reddened, his sleek hair ruffled, and his hands appealingly outstretched, “what am I going to do?”