Major Mahon is standing at one of the front windows of his house waiting
for his dinner to be served, when he sees a _fiacre_ driven up to the
door, and inside it the face of a friend.
He does not stay for the bell to be rung, but with genuine Irish
impulsiveness rushes forth, himself opening the door.
"Captain Ryecroft!" he exclaims, grasping the new arrival by the hand,
and hauling him out of the hackney. "Glad to see you back in Boulogne."
Then adding, as he observes a young man leap down from the box where he
has had seat beside the driver, "Part of your belongings, isn't he?"
"Yes, Major; my old Wye waterman, Jack Wingate, of whom I spoke to you.
And if it be convenient to you to quarter both of us for a day or two--"
"Don't talk about convenience, and bar all mention of time. The longer
you stay with me you'll be conferring the greater favour. Your old room
is gaping to receive you; and Murtagh will rig up a berth for your
boatman. Murt!" to the ex-Royal Irish, who, hearing the _fracas_, has
also come forth, "take charge of Captain Ryecroft's traps, along with
Mr Wingate here, and see all safety bestowed. Now, old fellow, step
inside. They'll look after the things. You're just in time to do
dinner with me. I was about sitting down to it _solus_, awfully
lamenting my loneliness. Well; one never knows what luck's in the wind.
Rather hard lines for you, however. If I mistake not, my pot's of the
poorest this blessed day. But I know you're neither _gourmand_ nor
_gourmet_; and that's some consolation. In!"
In go they, leaving the old soldier to settle the _fiacre_ fare, look
after the luggage, and extend the hospitalities of the kitchen to Jack
Wingate.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Soon as Captain Ryecroft has performed some slight ablutions--necessary
after a sea voyage however short--his host hurries him down to the
dining-room.