On his way home Dunn dropped into Martin's diggings for a "crack," and
for an hour the three friends reviewed the summer's happenings, each
finding in the experience of the others as keen a joy as in his own.
Linklater's holiday had been the most fruitful in exciting incident.
For two months he and his crew had dodged about among quaint Norwegian
harbours and in and out of fjords of wonderful beauty. Storms they
had weathered and calms they had endured; lazy days they had spent,
swimming, fishing, loafing; and wild days in fighting gales and
high-running seas that threatened to bury them and their crew beneath
their white-topped mountainous peaks.
"I say, that must have been great," cried Dunn with enthusiastic delight
in his friend's experiences.
"It sounds good, even in the telling," cried Martin, who had been
listening with envious ears. "Now my experiences are quite other. One
word describes them, grind, grind, grind, day in and day out, in a
gallant but futile attempt to justify the wisdom of my late examiners in
granting me my Triple."
"Don't listen to him, Linklater," said Dunn. "I happen to know that he
came through with banners flying and drums beating; and he has turned
into no end of a surgeon. I've heard old Kingston on him."
"But what about you, Dunn?" asked Linklater, with a kind of curious
uncertainty in his voice, as if dreading a tale of calamity.
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