"Your voice," Rutherford remarked at length, "has a certain familiar
sound. Still, I can't say I know you. What's the name?"

"Bob Hollister. Do you remember the bottle of Scotch we pinched from
the Black Major behind the brick wall on the Albert Road? Naturally
you wouldn't know me--with this face."

"Well," Rutherford said, as he held out his hand, "a fellow shouldn't
be surprised at anything any more. I understood you'd gone west. Your
face _is_ mussed up a bit. Rotten luck, eh?"

Hollister felt a lump in his throat. It was the first time for months
that any human being had met him on common ground. He experienced a
warm feeling for Rutherford. And the curious thing about that was that
out of the realm of the subconscious rose instantly the remembrance
that he had never particularly liked Tommy Rutherford. He was one of
the wild men of the battalion. When they went up the line Rutherford
was damnably cool and efficient, a fatalist who went about his grim
business unmoved. Back in rest billets he was always pursuing some
woman, unearthing surplus stores of whisky or wine, intent upon
dubious pleasures,--a handsome, self-centered debonair animal.

"My room's down here," Hollister said. "Come in and gas a bit--if you
aren't bound somewhere."

"Oh, all right. I came up here to see a chap, but he's out. I have
half an hour or so to spare."

Rutherford stretched himself on Hollister's bed. They lit cigarettes