But no one had eyes for the lad; each
visitor was waiting too eagerly for an opportunity to tell a story of
his own. Sutch drew a breath of relief and turned to Harry. But the boy
was sitting with his elbows on the cloth and his head propped between
his hands, lost to the glare of the room and its glitter of silver,
constructing again out of the swift succession of anecdotes a world of
cries and wounds, and maddened riderless chargers and men writhing in a
fog of cannon-smoke. The curtest, least graphic description of the
biting days and nights in the trenches set the lad shivering. Even his
face grew pinched, as though the iron frost of that winter was actually
eating into his bones. Sutch touched him lightly on the elbow.
"You renew those days for me," said he. "Though the heat is dripping
down the windows, I feel the chill of the Crimea."
Harry roused himself from his absorption.
"The stories renew them," said he.
"No. It is you listening to the stories."
And before Harry could reply, General Feversham's voice broke sharply in
from the head of the table:--
"Harry, look at the clock!"
At once all eyes were turned upon the lad. The hands of the clock made
the acutest of angles.
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