Maitland took Haddingly by the arm and led him to his tent. The two men sat down together on the camp bedstead. Maitland opened Mallory’s “Morte d’Arthur,” and read aloud:
“Then Sir Galahad came unto a mountain, where he found an old chapel, and found there nobody, for all was desolate, and there he kneeled before the altar and besought of God wholesome counsel.”
“I suppose it was just that,” said Haddingly.
“I thought I’d find you here,” he said. “I just wanted to ask the padre something. Was that Sir Golliwog come to life again or just some ordinary blighter like me suffering from nerve strain?”
Haddingly had no answer to give for a moment.
“He can’t have really wanted to sit in that church for half an hour,” said Dalton. “What the dickens would he do it_ for?_”
“He might have wanted to pray,” said Haddingly.
Not even his profession justified the saying of such a thing as that outside church. But every excuse must be made for him. He had been soaked in Mallory for a fortnight. Deserts, even when there are camps in them, are queer places, liable to upset men’s minds, and the conduct of the airman was certainly peculiar.
“Of course, if you put it that way,” said Dalton, “I’ve nothing more to say. All the same, he might have come into the mess for a drink. I’m not complaining of his doing anything he liked in the way of going to church; but I don’t see that a whisky and soda would have hurt him afterwards. He must have wanted it.”
Sam McAlister walked into my office yesterday and laid down a handful of silver on my desk.
“There you are,” he said, “and I am very much obliged to you for the loan.”
For the moment I could not recollect having lent Sam any money; though I should be glad to do so at any time if I thought he wanted it. Sam is a boy I like. He is an undergraduate of Trinity College, Dublin, and has the makings of a man in him, though he is not good at passing examinations and has never figured in an honours list. Some day, when he takes his degree, he is to come into my office and be made into a lawyer. His father, the Dean, is an old friend of mine.
I looked at the money lying before me, and then doubtfully at Sam.
“If you’ve forgotten all about it,” he said, “it’s rather a pity I paid. But I always was honest. That’s one of my misfortunes. If I wasn’t---- That’s the fine you paid for me.”