The invitation, which would mean nothing to you but a yes or a no, struck
me almost speechless. There was first the pleasure of it. I have not
laid stress on the fact that the weather was sickeningly hot, because it
didn’t enter into our considerations. We were too deeply concerned with
other things to care much that the house was stifling; and yet stifling
it was. But more important than that was the fact that any one in the
world should want to show me this courtesy. Remember that I had been
beyond the reach of courtesies. A drink from some one who would expect
me to give him a drink in return was the utmost I had known in this
direction for months, and I might say for years.
Is it any wonder that in my reply I stammered and stuttered and nearly
sobbed?
“Oh, but, I say, I—I look too beastly for an expedition of—of that sort.
I’m awfully sorry, but—but I—well, you know how it is.”
“Oh, get out! You’ve got to have the air. I’m your doctor. I’m not going
to see you cooped up there day after day in weather like this. Besides,
I’m bringing along a couple of dust-coats—the roads will be dusty part of
the way—and we shall both be covered up. Expect me by half past two.”
As he put up the receiver without waiting for further protests, there was
nothing for me but submission.
“I’ve been ’ere as long as you ’ave,” Lovey complained when I told him of
my invitation, “and nobody don’t ask me to go hout in no automobiles.”
“Oh, but they will.”
He shook his head.
“Them swells’ll take you away, sonny. See if they don’t.”
“Not from you, Lovey.”
He grabbed me by the arm.
“Will you promise me that, Slim?”
“Yes, Lovey; I promise you.”
“And we’ll go on being buddies, even when the rich guys talks to you
about all them swell things?”
“Yes, Lovey. We’re buddies for life.”
With this Mizpah between us he released my arm and I was able to go and
make my preparations.
In spite of the heat and the fact that on a windless day there was no
dust to speak of, Cantyre was buttoned up in a dust-coat. It would have
seemed the last word in tact if he hadn’t gone further by pretending to
be occupied in doing something to the steering-wheel while I hid my seedy
blue serge in the long linen garment he handed me out. As even an old
golf-cap can look pretty decent, I was really like anybody else by the
time I had snuggled myself in by his side.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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