II.--On the way.
"Toulon," announced Archie, as the train came to a stop and gave out its
plaintive dying whistle. "Naval port of our dear allies, the French.
This would interest Thomas."
"If he weren't asleep," I said.
"He'll be here directly," said Simpson from the little table for two on
the other side of the gangway. "I'm afraid he had a bad night. Here,
_garcon_--er--_donnez-moi du cafe et_--er"--But the waiter had slipped
past him again--the fifth time.
"Have some of ours," said Myra kindly, holding out the pot.
"Thanks very much, Myra, but I may as well wait for Thomas,
and--_garcon, du cafe pour_--I don't think he'll be--_deux cafes,
garcon, s'il vous_--it's going to be a lovely day."
Thomas came in quietly, sat down opposite Simpson, and ordered
breakfast.
"Samuel wants some too," said Myra.
Thomas looked surprised, grunted and ordered another breakfast.
"You see how easy it is," said Archie. "Thomas, we're at Toulon, where
the _ententes cordiales_ come from. You ought to have been up long ago
taking notes for the Admiralty."
"I had a rotten night," said Thomas. "Simpson fell out of bed in the
middle of it."
"Oh, poor Samuel!"
"You don't mean to say you gave him the top berth!" I asked in surprise.
"You must have known he'd fall out."
"But Thomas dear, surely Samuel's just falling-out-of-bed noise wouldn't
wake you up," said Myra. "I always thought you slept so well."
"He tried to get back into _my_ bed."
"I was a little dazed," explained Simpson hastily, "and I hadn't got my
spectacles."
"Still you ought to have been able to see Thomas there."
"Of course I did see him as soon as I got in, and then I remembered I
was up above. So I climbed up."
"It must be rather difficult climbing up at night," thought Dahlia.
"Not if you get a good take-off, Dahlia," said Simpson earnestly.
"Simpson got a good one off my face," explained Thomas.
"My dear old chap, I was frightfully sorry. I did come down at once and
tell you how sorry I was, didn't I?"
"You stepped back on to it," said Thomas shortly, and he turned his
attention to the coffee.
Our table had finished breakfast. Dahlia and Myra got up slowly, and
Archie and I filled our pipes and followed them out.
"Well, we'll leave you to it," said Archie to the other table.
"Personally, I think it's Thomas's turn to step on Simpson. You ought to
assert yourself, Thomas, anyhow. Throw some jam at him and then let
bygones be bygones. But don't be long, because there's a good view
coming."
The good view came, and then another and another, and they merged
together and became one long moving panorama of beauty. We stood in the
corridor and drank it in ... and at intervals we said "Oh-h!" and "Oh, I
say!" and "Oh, I say, _really!_" And there was one particular spot--I
wish I could remember where, so that it might be marked by a suitable
tablet--at the sight of which Simpson was overheard to say "_Mon Dieu_!"
for (probably) the first time in his life.
"You know, all these are olive trees, you chaps," he said every five
minutes. "I wonder if there are any olives growing on them?"
"Too early," said Archie. "It's the sardine season now."
It was at Cannes that we saw the first oranges.
"That does it," I said to Myra. "We're really here. And look, there's a
lemon tree. Give me the oranges and lemons and you can have all the
palms and the cactuses and the olives."
"Like polar bears in the arctic region," said Myra.
I thought for a moment. Superficially there is very little resemblance
between an orange and a polar bear.
"Like polar bears," I said hopefully.
"I mean," luckily she went on, "polar bears do it for you in the polar
regions. You really know you're there then. Give me the polar bears, I
always say, and you can keep the seals and the walruses and the
penguins. It's the hall-mark."
"Eight. I knew you meant something. In London," I went on, "it is
raining. Looking out of my window I see a lamp-post (not in flower)
beneath a low grey sky. Here we see oranges against a blue sky a million
miles deep. What a blend! Myra, let's go to a fancy-dress ball when we
got back. You go as an orange and I'll go as a very blue, blue sky, and
you shall lean against me."
"And we'll dance the tangerine," said Myra.
But now observe us approaching Monte Carlo. For an hour past Simpson has
been collecting his belongings. Two bags, two coats, a camera, a rug,
Thomas, golf-clubs, books--his compartment is full of things which have
to be kept under his eye lest they should evade him at the last moment.
As the train leaves Monaco his excitement is intense.
"I think, old chap," he says to Thomas, "I'll wear the coats after all."
"And the bags," says Thomas, "and then you'll have a suit."
Simpson puts on the two coats and appears very big and hot.
"I'd better have my hands free," he says, and straps the camera and the
golf clubs on to himself. "Then if you nip out and get a porter I can
hand the bags out to him through the window."
"All right," says Thomas. He is deep in his book and looks as if he were
settled in his corner of the carriage for the day.
The train stops. There is bustle, noise, confusion. Thomas in some
magical way has disappeared. A porter appears at the open window and
speaks voluble French to Simpson. Simpson looks round wildly for Thomas.
"Thomas!" he cries. "_Un moment_," he says to the porter. "Thomas! _Mon
ami, il n'est pas_----I say, Thomas, old chap, where are you? _Attendez
un moment. Mon ami_--er--_reviendra_"--He is very hot. He is wearing,
in addition to what one doesn't mention, an ordinary waistcoat, a woolly
waist-coat for steamer use, a tweed coat, an aquascutum, an ulster, a
camera and a bag of golf clubs. The porter, with many gesticulations, is
still hurling French at him.
It is too much for Simpson. He puts his head out of the window and,
observing in the distance a figure of such immense dignity that it can
only belong to the station-master, utters to him across the hurly-burly
a wild call for help.
"_Ou est_ Cook's _homme_?" he cries.