"Penny a point?" I ventured with a fatherly smile.
"You scared, old man? What do you say to a shilling a point!"
I was in an Aldershot tavern full of young off-duty soldiers. With me was my friend, Corporal Henry Wood, survivor of the '57 Indian Mutiny. We had become invaluable to each other's recovery from our spiritual war-wounds, and Wood had provided months of sanctuary to a grieving soul when I lost my dearest friend and my wife in the same year and could not abide in Kensington.
Times were better for both of us. Holmes was back from his exile, not dead after all. Wood and I were stronger and better, and now met for the mutual pleasure of our company. Many a Sunday I'd spent with the old soldier, whose wound pension had permitted him to stop playing fakir tricks for the soldier-lads' farthings.
I was in my late thirties; Wood his early 60s. Wood was grotesquely bent-backed and scarred from decades of captivity and abuse in the service of his country; I walked with a limp, one of the few British survivors of the Maiwand retreat. But to the green recruits in their late teens and early 20s we two were a pair of old duffers, not worth a moment of their attention and certainly nothing compared to their own untested youth and vigour. We took their leg-pulling or outright taunts about our age and infirmity with equanimity.
Until the day the worst squad of soldiers commandeered the dart-board and I waited for the right moment in their beer-fueled game to harrumph. "Hm! Seen better." Corporal Wood, who'd played darts with me before, almost choked on his pint but settled his expression by the time the pride-stung youngsters approached our table.
The other soldiers in this group's little clique whooped and roared and clanked their glasses, ready to see their mates knock a pompous old man off his seat. (However, others in the room smiled in their beer and waited.)
The youngsters never had a chance. Firing a steady revolver in the midst of an enemy cannonade, coupled with years of making precise intravenous injections, provided me with excellent preparation for this game. After my agreement to their terms, I didn't say another word – only let my mounting collection of double-20s speak for me as the upstarts got quieter and Wood got louder.
Thunk. Howls of anguish from the cubs as the old wolf sauntered back. Wood, already bent-backed, had doubled even further yelping with laughter.
I dumped my largesse on the table, over ten pounds extracted from the stricken youth. "Train-fare back to Baker Street," said I, taking four shillings from the horde. The rest I pushed to Wood. "You shan't be paying for beer for at least six months, Corporal. Or? You could put this in the bank and let it start earning you a few more shillings in interest. Leave it alone and it might even start taking care of you in a few years."
"Captain!" Wood's stunned expression was underlit with a relief I too had known in my early days of penury with Holmes, when a few extra coins had meant the difference between anxiety and peace. He made a valiant attempt at pride. "I – I can't – "
"Consider it back rent for the weeks you let a devastated widower stay with you in 1891. Now we'd best leave before these bucks try to get their money back."
Wood nodded hard, blinking for a moment as he stowed the notes and coins away and took up his walking-stick. I deliberately exaggerated my limp as we two passed the stricken recruits to exit the Musket & Shot.
Once outside we laughed long and hard. "Now that was a treat. I do love a good round of darts."
Wood shook, wiping tears of mirth away. "And what a lesson you taught those brats!"