Polson took up the proffered sovereign, with something of a lump in his throat, and turned to go. He had scarce made a step towards the door when it opened suddenly. This was destined to be a day of strange encounters, for who should walk almost into his arms but that Major de Blacquaire who was the present owner of the Droitwich salt mine from which his father and his uncle had drawn an illicit fortune. There are men who are born to hate each other at sight; and this Major de Blacquaire and Polson, though they had but a slight knowledge of each other, had found time to develop a savage dislike on either side. De Blacquaire was a man with an exasperatingly cold and supercilious fashion of speech. He was a band-box dandy, and went scented like a lady. Polson had once threatened him with a horse-whip, and the Major had withdrawn from the conflict not because he had any want of physical courage, but solely because he was too much of a fine gentleman to brawl. He had never forgotten or forgiven the insult, and Polson had learned to hate him all the more because he mistook him for a coward. The two recoiled from each other just in time to avoid collision, for De Blacquaire had entered hastily. They regarded each other for an instant, and De Blacquaire’s cynical and contemptuous gaze took in the other from head to foot, obviously taking note of the mean attire and the signs of the night march Polson had made. His glance fastened on the bunch of ribbons floating from the cap, and at that he smiled. ‘Oh!’ he said, with a finicking drawl. ‘You’ve made a bolt of it, have you?’ ‘Say that again,’ said Polson, ‘and I’ll ram it down your throat, and send a tooth or two along with it.’ ‘Indeed,’ said De Blacquaire. ‘I think you’ll find that it won’t pay you to use such language in your present position, Private Jervase.’ He turned away and, with the whip he carried in his hand, struck a resounding blow upon the open door. ‘Sergeant!’ he called, ‘bring up a file of men, and take this man to the guardroom.’ ‘On what authority, if you please?’ asked Polson. ‘On the authority of those ribbons, my man,’ De Blacquaire answered. ‘You mistake your authority, friend Popinjay,’ said Polson. ‘I am not in your service yet.’ ‘Has this man enlisted, Volnay?’ asked the Major. ‘No,’ said Volnay, ‘he hasn’t. He means to. And now I see what terms you’re on, I shall advise him very strongly, as an old friend of mine, to choose another regiment.’ ‘Yes,’ said Polson. ‘I think I’ll choose another regiment. I’m not hungry for the cat-o’-nine tails, and I should earn it if I were under this brute’s command five minutes. You’d be a handsome chap in your own way, Major, if it were not for that silly sneer you’re pleased to carry about with you. But I warn you that, under any circumstances whatsoever, if you should presume upon any difference in our rank to insult me by a word, a gesture, or a look I’ll spoil your beauty for you.’