n me as there is in a pound of lard. But when I see this poor beggar
Sabre as he is now, and when I hear him talk as he talked to me about
his position last week, and when I see how grey and ill he looks,
hobbling about on his old stick, well, I tell you, old man, I get--well,
look here, here it is from the Let Go.

"Look here, this is April, April, 1918, by all that's Hunnish--dashed
nearly four years of this infernal war. Well, old Sabre got knocked out
in France just about five months ago, back in November. He copped it
twice--shoulder and knee. Shoulder nothing much; knee pretty bad.
Thought they'd have to take his leg off, one time. Thought better of it,
thanks be; patched him up; discharged him from the Army; and sent him
home--very groggy, only just able to put the bad leg to the ground,
crutches, and going to be a stick and a bit of a limp all his life. Poor
old Puzzlehead. Think yourself lucky you were a Conscientious Objector,
old man.... Oh, damn you, that hurt.

"Very well. That's as he was when I first saw him again. Just making
first attempts in the stick and limp stage, poor beggar. That was back
in February. Early in February. Mark the date, as they say in the
detective stories. I can't remember what the date was, but never you
mind. You just mark it. Early in February, two months ago. There was
good old me down in Tidborough on business--good old me doing the heavy
London solicitor in a provincial town--they always put down a red carpet
for me at the station, you know; rather decent, don't you think?--and
remembering about old Sabre having been wounded and discharged, blew
into Fortune, East and Sabre's (business wasn't with them this time) for
news of him.

"Of course he wasn't there. Saw old Fortune and the man Twyning and
found them in regard to Sabre about as genial and communicative as a
maiden aunt over a married sister's new dress. Old Fortune looking like
a walking pulpit in a thundercloud--I should say he'd make about four of
me round the equator; and mind you, a chap stopped me in the street the
other day and offered me a job as Beefeater outside a moving-picture
show: yes, fact, I was wretchedly annoyed about it--and the man Twyning
with a lean and hungry look like Cassius, or was it Judas Iscariot?
Well, like Cassius out of a job or Judas Iscariot in the middle of one,
anyway. That's Twyning's sort. Chap I never cottoned on to a bit.
They'd precious little to say about Sabre. Sort of hande