Mr. Williams had been engaged in vigorously drying his face; he paused, and gazed up out of the towel in surprise, and one of his tent mates, Cadet Captain Fischer, ceased unwinding himself from his long red sash and stared.
"My name is Stanard," said the Parson—"Peter Stanard."
"Pleased to meet you," said Williams, stretching out a long, brawny arm.
There was a twinkle in the yearling's eye as he glanced at the skinny white fingers which Stanard put out in return. And, taking in the stranger's lank, scholarly figure, Williams seized the hand and squeezed with all his might.
He expected to hear a howl, but he was disappointed. The Parson drew up his "prehensile muscles," as he called them. The result was that Cadet Williams turned white, but he said nothing about it, and invited the stranger into his tent.
The Parson deposited himself gently in one corner and drew up his long legs under him. Then he gazed out of the tent and said—"ahem!"
"Warm day," said Williams, by way of a starter.
"It is not that the temperature is excessively altitudinous," responded the Parson, "but the presence of a larger proportion of humidity retards perspiratory exudation."
"Er—yes," said Williams. "Yes, I think that's it."
"I have come—ahem!" continued Stanard, "as a representative of Mr. Mallory."