Their eyes met. Into the faces of both leaped instant recognition. The
soldier pressed forward eagerly. The other stood his ground. There was a
look which approached unbelief on his round, rather florid features. But
he grasped the extended hand readily enough.
"By jove, it _is_ you, Wes," he said. "I couldn't believe my eyes. So
you're back alive, eh? You were reported killed, you know. Shot down
behind the German lines. You made quite a record, didn't you? How's
everything over there?"
There was a peculiar quality in Tommy Ashe's tone, a something that was
neither aloofness nor friendliness, nor anything that Wes Thompson could
immediately classify. But it was there, a something Tommy tried to
suppress and still failed to suppress. His words were hearty, but his
manner was not. And this he confirmed by his actions. Thompson said that
things over there were going well, and let it go at that. He was more
vitally concerned just then with over here. But before he could fairly
ask a question Tommy seized his hand and wrung it in farewell.
"Pardon my rush, old man," he said. "I've got an appointment I can't
afford to pass up, and I'm late already. Look me up to-morrow, will
you?"
Two years is long for some things, over-brief for others.
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