McPhail looked at the long carefully preserved ash of one of Doggie’s excellent cigars.
“It’s all a part of the doctrine of adaptability. In order to attain happiness in the army, the first step is to avoid differences of opinion with the civil and military police and non-commissioned officers, and such-like sycophantic myrmidons of authority. Being a man of academic education, it is with difficulty that I agree with them when I’m sober. If I were drunk, my bonnie laddie”—he waved a hand—“well—I don’t get drunk. And as I have no use for whisky, as merely an agreeable beverage, I have struck whisky out of my hedonistic scheme of existence. But if you have any more of that pleasant claret——”
Doggie rang the bell and gave the order. The landlord brought in bottle and glasses.
“And now, my dear Marmaduke,” said Phineas after an appreciative sip, “now that I have told you the story of my life, may I, without impertinent curiosity, again ask you what you meant when you said you had come down to bed-rock?”
The sight of the man, smug, cynical, shameless, sprawling luxuriously on the sofa, with his tunic unbuttoned, filled him with sudden fury: such fury as Oliver’s insult had aroused, such as had impelled him during a vicious rag in the mess to clutch a man’s hair and almost pull it out by the roots.
“Yes, you may; and I’ll tell you,” he cried, starting to his feet. “I’ve reached the bed-rock of myself—the bed-rock of humiliation and disgrace. And it’s all your fault. Instead of training me to be a man, you pandered to my poor mother’s weaknesses and brought me up like a little toy dog—the infernal name still sticks to me wherever I go. You made a helpless fool of me, and let me go out a helpless fool into the world. And when you came across me I was thinking whether it wouldn’t be best to throw myself over the parapet. A month ago you would have saluted me in the street and stood before me at attention when I spoke to you——”
“Eh? What’s that, laddie?” interrupted Phineas, sitting up. “You’ve held a commission in the army?”
“Yes,” said Doggie fiercely, “and I’ve been chucked. I’ve been thrown out as a hopeless rotter. And who is most to blame—you or I? It’s you. You’ve brought me to this infernal place. I’m here in hiding—hiding from my family and the decent folk I’m ashamed to meet. And it’s all your fault, and now you have it!”
“Laddie, laddie,” said Phineas reproachfully, “the facts of my being a guest beneath your roof and my humble military rank, render it difficult for me to make an appropriate reply.”
Doggie’s rage had spent itself. These rare fits were short-lived and left him somewhat unnerved.