It was towards the end of August. He and I appeared to be the only two
men left to the Club. He was sitting by an open window, the _Times_
lying on the floor beside him. I drew my chair a little closer and
remarked:--"Good morning."
He suppressed a yawn, and replied "Mornin'"--dropping the "g." The
custom was just coming into fashion; he was always correct.
"Going to be a very hot day, I am afraid," I continued.
"'Fraid so," was the response, after which he turned his head away and
gently closed his eyes.
I opined that conversation was not to his wish, but this only made me
more determined to talk, and to talk to him above all others in London.
The desire took hold of me to irritate him--to break down the
imperturbable calm within which he moved and had his being; and I
gathered myself together, and settled down to the task.
"Interesting paper the _Times_," I observed.
"Very," he replied, taking it from the floor and handing it to me. "Won't
you read it?"
I had been careful to throw into my voice an aggressive cheeriness which
I had calculated would vex him, but his manner remained that of a man who
is simply bored. I argued with him politely concerning the paper; but he
insisted, still with the same weary air, that he had done with it. I
thanked him effusively. I judged that he hated effusiveness.
"They say that to read a _Times_ leader," I persisted, "is a lesson in
English composition."
"So I've been told," he answered tranquilly. "Personally I don't take
them."
The _Times_, I could see, was not going to be of much assistance to me. I
lit a cigarette, and remarked that he was not shooting. He admitted the
fact. Under the circumstances, it would have taxed him to deny it, but
the necessity for confession aroused him.
"To myself," he said, "a tramp through miles of mud, in company with four
gloomy men in black velveteen, a couple of depressed-looking dogs, and a
heavy gun, the entire cavalcade being organised for the purpose of
killing some twelve-and-sixpence worth of poultry, suggests the
disproportionate."