What an image was there confronting him! Was this the face of Troy's
Chief Magistrate? (forgive the blank verse). Were these the
features--was this the aspect--from which virtue had so often derived
its encouragement and wrongdoing its reproof? Was this the figure
the ladies of Troy had been wont to follow with all but idolatrous
gaze? Nay, who was this man--unshaven, unkempt, unbewigged, smeared
with mud from head to foot, and from scalp to jaw with commingling
bloodstains? The Major groaned incredulous, horrified; gazed,
shuddered, and groaned again.
"Mind you," said Mr. Sturge reassuringly, "I'm not calling the truth
of your story into question for a moment. But under the
circumstances you'll allow it was a trifle stiff."
"It is true to the last particular," insisted the Major, recovering
his dignity.
"But come, now! Without a penny in your pocket, or so much as a
scrap of paper to identify you, you'll admit it was stiff?
Look here," he went on with a change of tone, slipping his arm
amicably within the Major's, "I've an idea. Comrades in adversity,
you know, and all that sort of thing. I've taken a liking to you,
and can do you a good turn. Drop that yarn of yours--'yarn,'
seafaring expression; odd how one catches the _colour_, so to speak.
Drop that yarn of yours. You're one of _us_, understand? The
Captain'll believe that; indeed, he believes it already--called you a
damned low-comedy man in my hearing.
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