“Oh, Routledge—see what comes o’ riding alone! In a month or six weeks, God loving the mails, the Word will publish: ‘The civilian mess was joined to-night by that young roving planet, Cosmo Routledge, who in present and former campaigns has driven straight to the source of exclusive information and pulled the hole in after him.’ Then, for a stick or two, I have discussed the great frieze coat,” Finacune added whimsically, “described the prophet’s brow, the slender hands of swift eloquence, and the sad, ineffable eyes of Routledge, born of America, a correspondent for the British, a citizen of the world, at home in India, and mystic of the wars.”
“Just add,” Cardinegh remarked meltingly, “that his heart beats for Ireland.”
That was a marvellous night. Big natures throbbed in rhythm. Whiskey as it sometimes will—the devil of it—brought out the brave and true and tender of human speech. Routledge told a bit of the story of the great frieze coat.... They were moments of trampling violence in the narrative; instants of torrid romance—to which the wearer had been a witness or a listener....
“Ah, they made cloth in those days,” old Jerry sighed. “Would you look under the collar of it for the name of the old Belfast maker?”
“It’s there, sure enough,” said Routledge, “as Tyrone is water-marked in the great Cardinegh scroll.”
Jerry did not answer for a moment. His face looked singularly white in the dark.
“The dean went back to Ireland just before we came out here this trip,” growled old Feeney, of the Pan-Anglo News Service. “It seems he couldn’t start an insurrection there, so he rushed back to the Witness office and haunted the cable-editor’s room until the Bhurpalese took pity on him and began shooting at Tommies.”
Hours passed with talk and laughter, liquor and song. It was strictly a night session of the inner section of war-painters; and in spirit the high priests of elder service trooped back to listen among the low-hanging Indian stars.... It was knee-deep in the morning hours when Routledge and Cardinegh drew apart at last. They walked out between the snoring lines, whispering:
“Jerry, what has this narrow-gauge campaign done to you? Fever or famine? You look drawn and blown and bleached.”
“I am going into the lair after this,” Cardinegh said. “The boys won’t believe it, but this is absolutely my last fling at the field. I am going home to Noreen, son, and London and the Witness may go to hell.”