“That’s all very well,” cried Doggie, “but what the——”
Phineas waved an interrupting hand. “You’ve got to go back, laddie. You’ve got to whip all the moral courage in you and go back to Durdlebury. The Dean, with his influence, and the letter you have shown me from your Colonel, can easily get you some honourable employment in either Service not so exacting as the one which you have recently found yourself unable to perform.”
Doggie threw a newly-lighted cigarette into the fire and turned passionately on McPhail.
“I won’t. You’re talking drivelling rot. I can’t. I’d sooner die than go back there with my tail between my legs. I’d sooner enlist as a private soldier.”
“Enlist?” said Phineas, and he drew himself up straight and gaunt. “Well, why not?”
“Enlist?” echoed Doggie in a dull tone.
“Have you never contemplated such a possibility?”
“Good God, no!” said Doggie.
“I have enlisted. And I am a man of ancient lineage as honourable, so as not to enter into unproductive argument, as yours. And I am a Master of Arts of the two Universities of Glasgow and Cambridge. Yet I fail to find anything dishonourable in my present estate as 33702 Private Phineas McPhail in the British Army.”
Doggie seemed not to hear him. He stared at him wildly.