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Updated: June 18, 2025
The photograph of Aggie, an angular, square-browed damsel, who looked as though she could guide the most recalcitrant of fishmongers into the paths of duty, was produced and thrust into Doggie's hand. He inspected it with polite appreciation, while his red-headed friend regarded him with fatuous anxiety. "Charming! charming!" said Doggie in his pleasantest way. "What's her colouring?"
He began to cultivate Doggie's virgin mind by aid of reminiscence, and of such racing news as was to be found in the Sportsman. He was a garrulous person and Doggie a good listener. To please him Doggie backed horses, through the old firm, for small sums. Once he brought off a forty to one chance. Taffy rushed to him with the news, dancing with excitement.
"If you don't continue your sewing, mademoiselle," said Doggie, "I shall think that I am disturbing you, and must bid you good night." Jeanne sat down and resumed her work. A sensation, more like laughter than anything else, fluttered round Doggie's heart. "Voulez-vous vous asseoir, Monsieur Trevor?"
And they could say nothing. They had only Doggie's word to go upon; they accepted it unquestioningly, but they knew no details. Doggie had disappeared. Naturally, they contradicted these evil rumours. The good folks of Durdlebury expected them to do so, and listened with well-bred incredulity. To the question, "Where is he now and what is he going to do?" they could only answer, "We don't know."
Peggy, in her softest and most pitying mood, never guessed the nature of Doggie's ordeal. Those letters so brave, sometimes so playful, had been written with shaky hand, misty eyes, throbbing head, despairing heart. Looking back, it seemed to him one blurred dream of pain. His brother officers were no worse than those in any other Kitchener regiment.
But what mattered infinitely, what shone with an immortal flame, though it were never so tiny, was the Wonderful Spiritual Something that had guided Doggie through the jaws of death. That evening she had a long talk in the kitchen with Phineas. The news of Doggie's safety had been given out by Willoughby, without any details.
"Madame," cried Jeanne, "I implore you to believe what I say: but not one of those letters have ever reached me." "Not one?" At first Peggy was incredulous. Phineas McPhail had told her of Doggie's despair at the lack of response from Frélus; and, after all, Frélus had a properly constituted post office in working order, which might be expected to forward letters.
I can't think what can be the matter with him." Peddle looked at the happy Phineas with the eyes of experience. "If you will allow me to say so, sir," said he, "the gentleman is dead drunk." And that was the beginning of the end of Phineas. He lost grip of himself. He became the scarlet scandal of Durdlebury and the terror of Doggie's life. The Dean came to the rescue of a grateful nephew.
Mo grinned, interjected a British Army French word now and then, and manifested delight when Jeanne understood. Phineas talked laboriously, endeavouring to expound his responsibility for Doggie's welfare. He had been his tutor. He used the word "tuteur." "That's a guardian, you silly ass," cried Doggie. "He means 'instituteur. Go on. Or, rather, don't go on. The lady isn't interested."
"Hold on!" cried Mo. "It was Doggie's money you were flinging about." McPhail withered him with a glance. "You're an unphilosophical ignoramus," said he. Perhaps one of the greatest influences which transformed Doggie into a fairly efficient though undistinguished infantryman was a morbid social terror of his officers.
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