He trotted along. There are moments when a man feels that all he needs in order to be a delivery wagon is a horse and a driver. Bream Mortimer was experiencing such a moment. “He had better chirrup to the dog while he’s there, don’t you think?” suggested Sam. He felt that a resolute man with legs as long as Bream’s might well deposit a cloak on a berth and be back under the half-minute. “Oh yes! Bream!” “Hello?” “While you’re down there, just chirrup a little more to poor Pinky. He does appreciate it so!” Bream disappeared. It is not always easy to interpret emotion from a glance at a man’s back; but Bream’s back looked like that of a man to whom the thought has occurred that, given a couple of fiddles and a piano, he would have made a good hired orchestra. “How is your dear little dog, by the way?” inquired Sam solicitously, as he fell into step by her side. “Much better now, thanks. I’ve made friends with a girl on board—did you ever hear her name—Jane Hubbard—she’s a rather well-known big-game hunter, and she fixed up some sort of a mixture for Pinky which did him a world of good. I don’t know what was in it except Worcester Sauce, but she said she always gave it to her mules in Africa when they had the botts ... it’s very nice of you to speak so affectionately of poor Pinky when he bit you.” “Animal spirits!” said Sam tolerantly. “Pure animal spirits. I like to see them. But, of course, I love all dogs.” “Oh, do you? So do I!” “I only wish they didn’t fight so much. I’m always stopping dog-fights.” “I do admire a man who knows what to do at a dog-fight. I’m afraid I’m rather helpless myself. There never seems anything to catch hold of.” She looked down. “Have you been reading? What is the book?” “The book? Oh, this. It’s a volume of Tennyson.” “Are you fond of Tennyson?” “I worship him,” said Sam reverently. “Those——” he glanced at his cuff—“those ‘Idylls of the King!’ I do not like to think what an ocean voyage would be if I had not my Tennyson with me.” “We must read him together. He is my favourite poet!” “We will! There is something about Tennyson....” “Yes, isn’t there! I’ve felt that myself so often.” “Some poets are whales at epics and all that sort of thing, while others call it a day when they’ve written something that runs to a couple of verses, but where Tennyson had the bulge was that his long game was just as good as his short. He was great off the tee and a marvel with his chip-shots.” “That sounds as though you play golf.” “When I am not reading Tennyson, you can generally find me out on the links. Do you play?” “I love it. How extraordinary that we should have so much in common. You seem to like all the things I like. We really ought to be great friends.” He was pausing to select the best of three replies when the lunch bugle sounded. “Oh dear!” she cried. “I must rush. But we shall see one another again up here afterwards?” “We will,” said Sam. “We’ll sit and read Tennyson.”