Morning grasped it eagerly.
Some time afterward, when Calvert arose to go, Morning ventured this much:
“And so you’re going to see Reever Kennard?”
“Yes, to-night.... I suppose you two and the others game together from time to time?”
“The fact is, New York isn’t very good anchorage for that sort of thing,” Morning said.
“... I was glad when they told me you had put over that big Liaoyang stuff, Morning——”
Morning smiled and took the quick brown hand of the other. Calvert appealed to him, but it couldn’t be shown in any way. Calvert was like a good horse, gladly giving evidence of fine feeling, but embarrassed when made much of.... He went away blithely—off, for God knows where—but fearlessly on his way.
Morning held the little knife in his hand.
He thought of that hard Philippine service which had seemed so big at the time; of that day when he watched the fat shoulders of Reever Kennard in the forward sets of horse, Kennard seeming all that greatness can be. He thought of the halt in Rosario, of the lame woman. He looked at the little knife again.... He had not really wanted it then, and yet it had cut the strings of his Fates, turning them loose upon him. It had knocked him out of the second Japanese column five years afterward, and given him instead Duke Fallows and Liaoyang. It had given him that great battle, Lowenkampf, the Ploughman, Eve, the sorrel mare—the journey to Koupangtse—the blanket at Tongu—the deck-passage—the Sickles, Ferry—and Nevin—even Noyes and Field.
It had given him the Armory, and Betty Berry.