r into
even his haziest picture of war. The young man was tall and a little
round-shouldered; he had short-sighted, rather prominent brown eyes,
untidy black hair and dark eyebrows which came near to meeting. He
wore a knickerbocker suit of bluish-grey tweed, a pale blue shirt, a
pale blue collar, and a dark blue tie--a symphony of colour which
seemed too elaborately considered to be quite natural. Dickson had set
him down as an artist or a newspaper correspondent, objects to him of
lively interest. But now the classification must be reconsidered.

"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. With
that name by rights you should be a poet."

Gloom settled on the young man's countenance. "It's a dashed sight too
poetic. It's like Edwin Arnold and Alfred Austin and Dante Gabriel
Rossetti. Great poets have vulgar monosyllables for names, like Keats.
The new Shakespeare when he comes along will probably be called Grubb
or Jubber, if he isn't Jones. With a name like yours I might have a
chance. You should be the poet."

"I'm very fond of reading," said Dickson modestly.

A slow smile crumpled Mr. Heritage's face. "There's a fire in the
smoking-room," he observed as he rose. "We'd better bag the armchair