Sherman, or Paul Jones, but as ruthless as Graham of Claverhouse. He put
the ever-lasting fear into the rebels of Oude--something like Cromwell
did in Ireland. My old Governor served through the Mutiny--he's told me
stories of him. My God!"

He drew his fur coat closer round him. "Well!"--Redmond watched the
sombre profile--"as I was saying . . . I 'muckered'. . . . Since then,
with the years, I guess I've been climbing down the ladder of illusions
till I'm right in the stoke-hole, and Old Nick seems to grin and whisper:
'As you were! my cashiered Sub.--As you were!' every time I chuck a brace
and try to climb up again. How's that for a bit of cheap cynicism?"--the
low, bitter laugh was not good to hear--"Man!"--the brooding eyes
narrowed--"I've sure plumbed the depths--knocking around, with the right
to live. Port Said, Buenos Aires, Shanghai. . . . I've certainly
travelled. Some day I'll throw the book at you. Now--substance and
ambition gone by the board long ago, and mighty little left of principle
I guess--I am--what I am--everything except a prodigal, or a
remittance-man--I never worried them at Home--that way. . . ."

He spoke with a sort of reckless earnestness that moved his hearer more
than that individual cared to show. Redmond felt it was useless to offer
mere conventional sympathy in a case like this. He did the next best
thing possible--he remained silently attentive and let the other run on.

"You take three men now--stationed in the same detachment," resumed Yorke
wearily, "by gum! they're thrown together mighty close when you come to
think of it. It's different to the Post, where there's a crowd. Life's
too short to start in explaining minutely just what that difference is.
Fact remains! . . . to get along and pull together they've got to like
each other--have something in common--give and take. Otherwise the