He was one of
the wild men of the battalion. When they went up the line Rutherford
was damnably cool and efficient, a fatalist who went about his grim
business unmoved. Back in rest billets he was always pursuing some
woman, unearthing surplus stores of whisky or wine, intent upon
dubious pleasures,--a handsome, self-centered debonair animal.
"My room's down here," Hollister said. "Come in and gas a bit--if you
aren't bound somewhere."
"Oh, all right. I came up here to see a chap, but he's out. I have
half an hour or so to spare."
Rutherford stretched himself on Hollister's bed. They lit cigarettes
and talked. And as they talked, Rutherford kept looking at Hollister's
face, until Hollister at last said to him:
"Doesn't it give you the willies to look at me?"
Rutherford shook his head.
"Oh, no. I've got used to seeing fellows all twisted out of shape. You
seem to be fit enough otherwise."
"I am," Hollister said moodily. "But it's a devil of a handicap to
have a mug like this."
"Makes people shy off, eh? Women particularly.
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