"A little. You see he's never mad enough to send to hospital, or drunk enough to run in, but at any minute he may flare up, brooding and sulking as he does. He resents any interest being shown in him, and the only time I took him out shooting, he all but shot me by accident."
"I fish," said Bobby, with a wry face. "I hire a country-boat and go down the river from Thursday to Sunday, and the amiable Dormer goes with me—if you can spare us both."
"You blazing young fool!" said Revere, but his heart was full of much more pleasant words.
Bobby, the captain of a country-boat, with Private Dormer for mate, dropped down the river on Thursday morning—the Private at the bow, the Subaltern at the helm. The Private glared uneasily at the Subaltern who respected the reserve of the Private.
After six hours, Dormer paced to the stern, saluted, and said: "Beg y' pardon, Sir, but was you ever on the Durh'm Canal?"
"No," said Bobby Wick. "Come and have some tiffin."
They ate in silence. As the evening fell, Private Dormer broke forth, speaking to himself:—
"Hi was on the Durh'm Canal, jes' such a night, come next week twelve month, a trailin' of my toes in the water." He smoked and said no more till bed-time.
The witchery of the dawn turned the grey river-reaches to purple, gold, and opal: and it was as though the lumbering barge crept across the splendours of a new Heaven.
Private Dormer popped his head out of his blanket and gazed at the glory below and around.
"Well_damn—my—eyes!" said Private Dormer, in an awed whisper. "This 'ere is like a bloomin' gallanty-show!" For the rest of the day he was dumb, but achieved an ensanguined filthiness through the cleaning of big fish.
The boat returned on Saturday evening. Dormer had been struggling with speech since noon. As the lines and luggage were being disembarked, he found tongue.
"Beg y' pardon, Sir," he said, "but would you—would you min' shakin' 'ands with me, Sir?"
