The Intrusion of Jimmy Part 14

"I'm fearfully in love with her," said his lordship.

"She looked a charming girl," said Jimmy.

They examined the water in silence. From somewhere out in the night came the sound of oars, as the police-boat moved on its patrol.

"Does she make you want to go to j.a.pan?" asked Jimmy, suddenly.

"Eh?" said Lord Dreever, startled. "j.a.pan?"

Jimmy adroitly abandoned the position of confidant, and seized that of confider.

"I met a girl a year ago--only really met her once, and even then--oh, well! Anyway, it's made me so restless that I haven't been able to stay in one place for more than a month on end. I tried Morocco, and had to quit. I tried Spain, and that wasn't any good, either.

The other day, I heard a fellow say that j.a.pan was a pretty interesting sort of country. I was wondering whether I wouldn't give it a trial."

Lord Dreever regarded this traveled man with interest.

"It beats me," he said, wonderingly. "What do you want to leg it about the world like that for? What's the trouble? Why don't you stay where the girl is?"

"I don't know where she is."

"Don't know?"

"She disappeared."

"Where did you see her last?" asked his lordship, as if Molly were a mislaid penknife.

"New York."

"But how do you mean, disappeared? Don't you know her address?"

"I don't even know her name."

"But dash it all, I say, I mean! Have you ever spoken to her?"

"Only once. It's rather a complicated story. At any rate, she's gone."

Lord Dreever said that it was a rum business. Jimmy conceded the point.

"Seems to me," said his lordship, "we're both in the cart."

"What's your trouble?"

Lord Dreever hesitated.

"Oh, well, it's only that I want to marry one girl, and my uncle's dead set on my marrying another."

"Are you afraid of hurting your uncle's feelings?"

"It's not so much hurting his feelings. It's--oh, well, it's too long to tell now. I think I'll be getting home. I'm staying at our place in Eaton Square."

"How are you going? If you'll walk, I'll come some of the way with you."

"Right you are. Let's be pushing along, shall we?"

They turned up into the Strand, and through Trafalgar Square into Piccadilly. Piccadilly has a restful aspect in the small hours. Some men were cleaning the road with water from a long hose. The swishing of the torrent on the parched wood was musical.

Just beyond the gate of Hyde Park, to the right of the road, stands a cabmen's shelter. Conversation and emotion had made Lord Dreever thirsty. He suggested coffee as a suitable conclusion to the night's revels.

"I often go in here when I'm up in town," he said. "The cabbies don't mind. They're sportsmen."

The shelter was nearly full when they opened the door. It was very warm inside. A cabman gets so much fresh air in the exercise of his professional duties that he is apt to avoid it in private life. The air was heavy with conflicting scents. Fried onions seemed to be having the best of the struggle for the moment, though plug tobacco competed gallantly. A keenly a.n.a.lytical nose might also have detected the presence of steak and coffee.

A dispute seemed to be in progress as they entered.

"You don't wish you was in Russher," said a voice.

"Yus, I do wish I wos in Russher," retorted a shriveled mummy of a cabman, who was blowing patiently at a saucerful of coffee.

"Why do you wish you was in Russher?" asked the interlocutor, introducing a Ma.s.sa Bones and Ma.s.sa Johnsing touch into the dialogue.

"Because yer can wade over yer knees in bla-a-a-ad there," said the mummy.

"In wot?"

"In bla-a-ad--ruddy bla-a-ad! That's why I wish I wos in Russher."

"Cheery cove that," said Lord Dreever. "I say, can you give us some coffee?"

"I might try Russia instead of j.a.pan," said Jimmy, meditatively.

The lethal liquid was brought. Conversation began again. Other experts gave their views on the internal affairs of Russia. Jimmy would have enjoyed it more if he had been less sleepy. His back was wedged comfortably against the wall of the shelter, and the heat of the room stole into his brain. The voices of the disputants grew fainter and fainter.

He had almost dozed off when a new voice cut through the murmur and woke him. It was a voice he knew, and the accent was a familiar accent.

"Gents! Excuse me."

He looked up. The mists of sleep shredded away. A ragged youth with a crop of fiery red hair was standing in the doorway, regarding the occupants of the shelter with a grin, half-whimsical, half-defiant.

Jimmy recognized him. It was Spike Mullins.

"Excuse me," said Spike Mullins. "Is dere any gent in dis bunch of professional beauts wants to give a poor orphan dat suffers from a painful toist something to drink? Gents is courteously requested not to speak all in a crowd."

"Shet that blanky door," said the mummy cabman, sourly.

"And 'op it," added his late opponent. "We don't want none of your sort 'ere."

"Den you ain't my long-lost brudders after all," said the newcomer, regretfully. "I t'ought youse didn't look handsome enough for dat.

Good-night to youse, gents."