In that first sleep how often do we dream that our calamity has been
only a dream. It was so in my first moments of awakening. Vestiges of
some grotesquely hideous nightmare remained with me. Wearing the
shackles of the slave, I had been mowing the corn under the fierce sun
that beats down upon the American savannahs. Sickeningly, then, a wind
of memory blew upon me and I was alive to my situation.
Nor was I forgetful of the plight in which the Honourable George would
now find himself. He is as good as lost when not properly looked
after. In the ordinary affairs of life he is a simple, trusting,
incompetent duffer, if ever there was one. Even in so rudimentary a
matter as collar-studs he is like a storm-tossed mariner--I mean to
say, like a chap in a boat on the ocean who doesn’t know what sails to
pull up nor how to steer the silly rudder.
One rather feels exactly that about him.
And now he was bound to go seedy beyond description--like the time at
Mentone when he dreamed a system for playing the little horses, after
which for a fortnight I was obliged to nurse a well-connected invalid
in order that we might last over till next remittance day. The havoc
he managed to wreak among his belongings in that time would scarce be
believed should I set it down--not even a single boot properly
treed--and his appearance when I was enabled to recover him (my client
having behaved most handsomely on the eve of his departure for Spain)
being such that I passed him in the hotel lounge without even a
nod--climbing-boots, with trousers from his one suit of boating
flannels, a blazered golfing waistcoat, his best morning-coat with the
wide braid, a hunting-stock and a motoring-cap, with his beard more
than discursive, as one might say, than I had ever seen it. If I
disclose this thing it is only that my fears for him may be
comprehended when I pictured him being permanently out of hand.
Meditating thus bitterly, I had but finished dressing when I was
startled by a knock on my door and by the entrance, to my summons, of
the elder and more subdued Floud, he of the drooping mustaches and the
mournful eyes of pale blue. One glance at his attire brought freshly
to my mind the atrocious difficulties of my new situation. I may be
credited or not, but combined with tan boots and wretchedly fitting
trousers of a purple hue he wore a black frock-coat, revealing far,
far too much of a blue satin “made” cravat on which was painted a
cluster of tiny white flowers--lilies of the valley, I should say.
Unbelievably above this monstrous mélange was a rather low-crowned
bowler hat.
Hardly repressing a shudder, I bowed, whereupon he advanced solemnly
to me and put out his hand. To cover the embarrassing situation
tactfully I extended my own, and we actually shook hands, although the
clasp was limply quite formal.
“How do you do, Mr. Ruggles?” he began.