At this point of his reflections he became aware of a presence by his side. He turned his head and found a soldier, an ordinary private, very close to him, also leaning on the parapet.
“I thought I wasn’t mistaken in Mr. Marmaduke Trevor.”
Doggie started away, on the point of flight, dreading the possible insolence of one of the men of his late regiment. But the voice of the speaker rang in his ears with a strange familiarity, and the great fleshy nose, the high cheek-bones, and the little grey eyes in the weather-beaten face suggested vaguely some one of the long ago. His dawning recognition amused the soldier.
“Yes, laddie. Ye’re right. It’s your old Phineas—Phineas McPhail, Esq., M.A., defunct. Now 33702 Private P. McPhail redivivus.”
He warmly wrung the hand of the semi-bewildered Doggie, who murmured: “Very glad to meet you, I’m sure.”
Phineas, gaunt and bony, took his arm.
“Would it not just be possible,” he said, in his old half-pedantic, half-ironic intonation, “to find a locality less exposed to the roar of traffic and the rude jostling of pedestrians and the inclemency of the elements, in which we can enjoy the amenities of a little refined conversation?”
It was like a breath from the past. Doggie smiled.
“Which way are you going?”
“Your way, my dear Marmaduke, was ever mine, until I was swept, I thought for ever, out of your path by a torrential spate of whisky.”