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And I am a man of ancient lineage as honourable, so as not to enter into unproductive argument, as yours. And I am a Master of Arts of the two Universities of Glasgow and Cambridge. Yet I fail to find anything dishonourable in my present estate as 33702 Private Phineas McPhail in the British Army." Doggie seemed not to hear him. He stared at him wildly. "Enlist?" he repeated. "As a Tommy?"
But the voice of the speaker rang in his ears with a strange familiarity, and the great fleshy nose, the high cheek-bones, and the little grey eyes in the weather-beaten face suggested vaguely some one of the long ago. His dawning recognition amused the soldier. "Yes, laddie. Ye're right. It's your old Phineas Phineas McPhail, Esq., M.A., defunct. Now 33702 Private P. McPhail redivivus."
Then I threw myself on his bosom and bade him take me to her. That's how I became 33702 Private Phineas McPhail, A Company, 10th Wessex Rangers, at the remuneration of one shilling and twopence per diem." "Do you like it?" asked Doggie. Phineas rubbed the side of his thick nose thoughtfully. "There you come to the metaphysical conception of human happiness," he replied.
Phineas McPhail, M.A., late of Glasgow and Cambridge, looked at Doggie with his keen little grey eyes beneath bent and bristling eyebrows. In the language of 33702 Private McPhail, he asked: "What the blazes is it all about?" "That's a long story," said Doggie, looking at his watch. "In the meantime, I had better give some orders about dinner. And you would like to wash."
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