have a yarn."
He limped through the doorway, steadying himself with his hands against the rocking of the train. Standish followed. Never again, he reflected, would he follow those broad shoulders in a U.S. "Forward rush" to the familiar slogan of "Feet--forwards--feet!"
"You were wounded, too, last spring, weren't you?" queried the King's Messenger, burrowing in his suit case for his flask. "Squat down at the end there--got your glass?" He measured out two portions of whisky and from the rack produced a bottle of soda. "Say when..."
Standish nodded. "Thanks--whoa! Yes, I got a couple of 'cushy' wounds and three months' leave."
The other turned, helping himself to soda-water. "Lor', yes, and you got spliced, too, Bunje!" He contemplated the Benedict over the rim of his tumbler with the whimsical faint curiosity with which the bachelor Naval Officer regards one of his brethren who has passed beyond the Veil.
"Yes." For a moment Standish assumed a thoughtful expressio