"So you were in the war," he said encouragingly.

"Four blasted years," was the savage reply. "And I never want to
hear the name of the beastly thing again."

"You said he was an Australian," said Dickson, casting back. "But I
thought Australians had a queer accent, like the English."

"They've all kind of accents, but you can never mistake their voice.
It's got the sun in it. Canadians have got grinding ice in theirs,
and Virginians have got butter. So have the Irish. In Britain
there are no voices, only speaking-tubes. It isn't safe to judge
men by their accent only. You yourself I take to be Scotch, but for
all I know you may be a senator from Chicago or a Boer General."

"I'm from Glasgow. My name's Dickson McCunn." He had a faint hope
that the announcement might affect the other as it had affected the
bagman at Kilchrist.

"Golly, what a name!" exclaimed the young man rudely.

Dickson was nettled. "It's very old Highland," he said. "It means
the son of a dog."

"Which--Christian name or surname?" Then the young man appeared to
think he had gone too far, for he smiled pleasantly. "And a very
good name too. Mine is prosaic by comparison. They call me
John Heritage."

"That," said Dickson, mollified, "is like a name out of a book.