"Have you seen her?" asked Bones.

He put this question with such laboured unconcern that Hamilton put

down his pen and glared suspiciously at his partner.

"She's rather a beauty," Bones went on, toying with his ivory

paper-knife. "She has one of those dinky bonnets, dear old thing, that

makes you feel awfully braced with life."

Hamilton gasped. He had seen the beautiful Miss Whitland enter the

office half an hour before, but he had not noticed her head-dress.

"Her body's dark blue, with teeny red stripes," said Bones dreamily,

"and all her fittings are nickel-plated----"

"Stop!" commanded Hamilton hollowly. "To what unhappy woman are you

referring in this ribald fashion?"

"Woman!" spluttered the indignant Bones. "I'm talking about my car."

"Your car?"

"My car," said Bones, in the off-handed way that a sudden millionaire

might refer to "my earth."

"You've bought a car?"

Bones nodded.

"It's a jolly good 'bus," he said. "I thought of running down to

Brighton on Sunday."

Hamilton got up and walked slowly across the room with his hands in his

pockets.

"You're thinking of running down to Brighton, are you?" he said. "Is

it one of those kind of cars where you have to do your own running?"

Bones, with a good-natured smile, also rose from his desk and walked to

the window.

"My car," he said, and waved his hand to the street.

By craning his neck, Hamilton was able to get a view of the patch of

roadway immediately in front of the main entrance to the building. And

undoubtedly there was a car in waiting--a long, resplendent machine

that glittered in the morning sunlight.

"What's the pink cushion on the seat?" asked Hamilton.

"That's not a pink cushion, dear old myoptic," said Bones calmly;

"that's my chauffeur--Ali ben Ahmed."

"Good lor!" said the impressed Hamilton. "You've a nerve to drive into

the City with a sky-blue Kroo boy."

Bones shrugged his shoulders.

"We attracted a certain amount of attention," he admitted, not without

satisfaction.

"Naturally," said Hamilton, going back to his desk. "People thought

you were advertising Pill Pellets for Pale Poultry. When did you buy

this infernal machine?"

Bones, at his desk, crossed his legs and put his fingers together.

"Negotiations, dear old Ham, have been in progress for a month," he

recited. "I have been taking lessons on the quiet, and to-day--proof!"

He took out his pocket-book and threw a paper with a lordly air towards

his partner. It fell half-way on the floor.

"Don't trouble to get up," said Hamilton. "It's your motor licence.

You needn't be able to drive a car to get that."

And then Bones dropped his attitude of insouciance and became a

vociferous advertisement for the six-cylinder Carter-Crispley ("the big

car that's made like a clock"). He became double pages with

illustrations and handbooks and electric signs. He spoke of Carter and

of Crispley individually and collectively with enthusiasm, affection,

and reverence.




readonlinefreebook.com Copyright 2016 - 2024