Andrew held a cigarette between the tips of his fingers and looked at the curling smoke. The picture of the reefs and surfs and white sands and palm-trees of these far off islands rose, fascinating, before his eyes. And then he remembered that he had once a father and mother--and a birth-place.
"Curiously enough," said he, "I am Australian born."
He had scarcely ever realized the fact.
"All the more reason," said Arbuthnot heartily. "Come with me on the Osway. The captain's a pal of mine. He'll fix up a bunk for you somewhere."
He offered boundless hospitality. Andrew grew more wistful. He thanked Arbuthnot. But----
"I'm a poor man," said he, "and have to earn my living at my old job."
"And what's that?"
"I'm a music-hall artist," said Andrew.
"You? Good Lord! I thought you had been a soldier all your life. One of the old contemptibles."
"I enlisted as a private in the Grenadier Guards," smiled Andrew.