He wore a captain's insignia now. Hollister greeted him by
name.
"Hello, Tommy."
The captain looked at him. His face expressed nothing whatever.
Hollister waited for that familiar shadow of distaste to appear. Then
he remembered that, like himself, Rutherford must have seen thousands
upon thousands of horribly mutilated men.
"Your voice," Rutherford remarked at length, "has a certain familiar
sound. Still, I can't say I know you. What's the name?"
"Bob Hollister. Do you remember the bottle of Scotch we pinched from
the Black Major behind the brick wall on the Albert Road? Naturally
you wouldn't know me--with this face."
"Well," Rutherford said, as he held out his hand, "a fellow shouldn't
be surprised at anything any more. I understood you'd gone west. Your
face _is_ mussed up a bit. Rotten luck, eh?"
Hollister felt a lump in his throat. It was the first time for months
that any human being had met him on common ground. He experienced a
warm feeling for Rutherford. And the curious thing about that was that
out of the realm of the subconscious rose instantly the remembrance
that he had never particularly liked Tommy Rutherford.
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