finishing touches to his hair an idea occurred to him. He flung
open the door.

"Laddie, I've got it. It's a woman."

But Doggie laughed and shook his head, and leaving McPhail, took his
turn in the bedroom. For the first time since his return to civil life
he ceased for a few moments to brood over his troubles. McPhail's
mystification amused him. McPhail's personality and address, viewed in
the light of the past, were full of interest. Obviously he was a man
who lived unashamed on low levels. Doggie wondered how he could have
regarded him for years with a respect almost amounting to veneration.
In a curious unformulated way Doggie felt that he had authority over
this man so much older than himself, who had once been his master. It
tickled into some kind of life his deadened self-esteem. Here at last
was a man with whom he could converse on sure ground. The khaki
uniform caused him no envy.

"The poet is not altogether incorrect," said McPhail, when they sat
down to dinner, "in pointing out the sweet uses of adversity. If it
had not been for the adversity of a wee bit operation, I should not
now be on sick furlough. And if I had not been on furlough I shouldn't
have the pleasure of this agreeable reconciliation. Here's to you,
laddie, and to our lasting friendship." He sipped his claret. "It's
not like the Lafitte in the old cellar--_Eheu fugaces anni et_--what
the plague is the Latin for vintages? But 'twill serve." He drank
again and smacked his lips. "It will even serve very satisfactorily.
Good wine at a perfect temperature is not the daily drink of the
British soldier."

"By the way," said Doggie, "you haven't told me why you became a
soldier."

"A series of vicissitudes dating from the hour I left your house,"
said Phineas, "vicissitudes the recital of which would wring your
heart, laddie, and make angels weep if their lachrymal glands were not
too busily engaged by the horrors of war, culminated four months ago
in an attack of fervid and penniless patriotism. No one seemed to want
me except my country. She clamoured for me on every hoarding and every
omnibus. A recruiting-sergeant in Trafalgar Square tapped me on the
arm, and said: 'Young man, your country wants you.' Said I with my
Scottish caution, 'Can you take your affidavit that you got the
information straight from the War Office?' 'I can,' said he. Then I
threw myself on his bosom and bade him take me to her. That's how I
became 33702 Private Phine