Part 9 (1/2)
But here a voice from within the caravan interrupted him.
”Stanislas!”
”My love?”
”I can't find the saucepan.”
A lady appeared at the hatch of the doorway above. Her hair hung in disarray over her well-developed shoulders, and recent tears had left their furrows on a painted but not uncomely face.
”I--I--well, to confess the truth, I p.a.w.ned it, my bud. Dear, every cloud has its silver lining, and meanwhile what shall we say to a simple fry? You have an incomparable knack of frying.”
”But where's the dripping?”
Her husband groaned.
”The dripping! The continual dripping! Am I--forgive the bitterness of the question--but am I a stone, love?”
He asked it with a hollow laugh, and at the same time with a glance challenged Sam's approval for his desperate pleasantry.
Sam jerked his thumb to indicate a wooden out-house on the far side of the yard.
”I got a shanty of my own across there, _and_ a few fixin's. If the van's anch.o.r.ed here, an' I can set you up with odds-an'-ends such as a saucepan, you're welcome.”
”A friend in need, sir, is a friend indeed,” said the stranger impressively; and Sam's face brightened, for he had heard the proverb before, and it promised to bring the conversation, which he had found some difficulty in following, down to safe, familiar ground. ”Allow me to introduce you--but excuse me, I have not the pleasure of knowing your name--”
”Sam Bossom.”
”Delighted! 'Bossom' did you say? B--O--double S--it should have been 'Blossom,' sir, with a slight addition; or, with an equally slight omission--er--'Bosom,' if my Arabella will excuse me. On two hands, Mr.
Bossom, you narrowly escape poetry.” (Sam looked about him uneasily.) ”But, as Browning says, 'The little more and how much it is, the little less and what miles away.' Mine is Mortimer, sir--Stanislas Horatio Mortimer. You have doubtless heard of it?”
”Can't say as I 'ave,” Sam confessed.
”Is it possible?” Mr. Mortimer was plainly surprised, not to say hurt.
He knit his brows, and for a moment seemed to be pondering darkly.
”You hear it, Arabella? But no matter. As I was saying, sir, I desire the pleasure of introducing you to my wife, Mrs. Mortimer, better known to fame, perhaps, as Miss Arabella St. Maur. You see her, Mr. Bossom, as my helpmeet under circ.u.mstances which (though temporarily unfavourable) call forth the true woman--naked, in a figurative sense, and unadorned. But her Ophelia, sir, has been favourably, nay enthusiastically, approved by some of the best critics of our day.”
This again left Sam gravelled. He had a vague notion that the lady's Ophelia must be some admired part of her anatomy, but contented himself with touching his brow politely and muttering that he was Mrs.
Mortimer's to command. The lady, who appeared to be what Sam called to himself a good sort, smiled down on him graciously, and hoped that she and her husband might be favoured with his company at supper.
”It's very kind of _you_, ma'am,” responded Sam; ”but 'fact is I han't knocked off work yet. 'Must go now and fetch out th' old hoss for a trifle of haulage; an' when I get back I must clean meself an' s.h.i.+ft for night-school--me bein' due early there to fetch up leeway. You see,” he explained, ”bein' on the move wi' the boats most o' my time, I don't get the same chances as the other fellows. So when I hauls ash.o.r.e, as we call it, I 'ave to make up lost time.”
”A student, I declare!” Mr. Mortimer saluted him. Rising from the steps of the caravan, he rubbed a hand down his trouser-leg and extended it.
”Permit me to grasp, sir, the h.o.r.n.y palm of self-improvement. A scholar in humble life! and--as your delicacy in this small matter of the saucepan sufficiently attests--one of Nature's gentlemen to boot!
I prophesy that you will go far, Mr. Bossom. May I inquire what books you thumb?”
”Thumb?” Sam, his hard hand released, stared at it a moment perplexed.
”That ain't the _method_, sir; not at our school. But I'm gettin'
along, and the book is called Lord Macaulay.”