Mr. Fortune's watch slipped through his fingers to the full length of his chain. Twyning got up and went over to a bookcase and stared at it.
Mr. Fortune heaved in the line with an agitated hand over hand motion. "I'd no idea! My dear fellow, I'd no idea! How very admirable of you! When was this? After that big meeting in the Corn exchange the other day?"
"Don't tell them when it was," said Sabre's mind. He said, "No, rather before that. I was rejected on medical grounds."
"Well, well!" said Mr. Fortune. "Well, well!" He gave the suggestion of being unable to array his thoughts against this surprising turn of the day. "Most creditable. Twyning, do you hear that?"
Twyning spun around from the bookcase and came forward. "Eh? Sorry, I'm afraid I wasn't listening."
"Our excellent Sabre has offered himself for enlistment and been rejected."
Twyning said, "Have you, by Jove! Jolly good. What bad luck being turned down. What was it?"
"Was it, really? By Jove, and you look fit enough, too, old man. Fancy, heart! Fancy--Jolly sporting of you. Fancy--Oh, I say, old man, do let's have a look at your paper if you've got it on you. I want to see one of those things."
"Your rejection paper, old man. I've never seen one. Only if you've got it on you."
"Well, I haven't. I was seen privately. I'm rather friendly with them up at the barracks."
"Oh, yes, of course. Wonder they didn't give you a paper, though."
"Quite so, old man. Quite so. Funny, that's all."
Sabre paused on the threshold. He perfectly well understood the villainous implication. Vile, intolerable! But of what service to take it up?--To hear Twyning's laugh and his "My dear old chap, as if I should think such a thing!" He passed into his room. The thought he had had which had arrested his anger at Mr. Fortune's hints, revealing this incident in another light, was, "They want to get rid of me."
In August, the anniversary month of the war, he again offered himself for enlistment and was again rejected, but this time after a longer scrutiny: the standard was not at its first height of perfection. Earnshaw, Colonel Rattray, all the remnant of his former friends, were gone to the front: Sabre submitted himself through the ordinary channels and this time received what Twyning had called his "paper." He did not show it to Twyning, nor mention either to him or to Mr. Fortune that he had tried again. "Again! most creditable of you, my dear Sabre." "Again, have you, though? By Jove, that's sporting of you. Did they give you a paper this time, old man?" No. Not much. Feeling as he felt about the war, acutely aware as he was of the partners' interest in the matter, that, he felt, could not be borne.