Ruggles of Red Gap. Harry Leon Wilson
Читать онлайн книгу.
“You’re a wonder, Jeff,” said Cousin Egbert. “You talk it like a professor.”
“It come natural to me,” said the fellow, “and it’s a good thing, too. If you know a little French you can go all over Europe without a bit of trouble.”
Inside the place was all activity, for many cabmen were now accepting the proffered hospitality, and calling “votry santy!” to their host, who seemed much pleased. Then to my amazement Cousin Egbert insisted that our cabman should sit at table with us. I trust I have as little foolish pride as most people, but this did seem like crowding it on a bit thick. In fact, it looked rather dicky. I was glad to remember that we were in what seemed to be the foreign quarter of the town, where it was probable that no one would recognize us. The drink came, though our cabman refused the whiskey and secured a bottle of native wine.
“Three rousing cheers!” said Cousin Egbert as we drank once more, and added as an afterthought, “What a beautiful world we live in!”
“Vooley-voos make-um bring dinner!” said the Tuttle person to the cabman, who thereupon spoke at length in his native tongue to the waiter. By this means we secured a soup that was not half bad and presently a stew of mutton which Cousin Egbert declared was “some goo.” To my astonishment I ate heartily, even in such raffish surroundings. In fact, I found myself pigging it with the rest of them. With coffee, cigars were brought from the tobacconist’s next-door, each cabman present accepting one. Our own man was plainly feeling a vast pride in his party, and now circulated among his fellows with an account of our merits.
“This is what I call life,” said the Tuttle person, leaning back in his chair.
“I’m coming right back here every day,” declared Cousin Egbert happily.
“What’s the matter with a little drive to see some well-known objects of interest?” inquired his friend.
“Not art galleries,” insisted Cousin Egbert.
“And not churches,” said his friend. “Every day’s been Sunday with me long enough.”
“And not clothing stores,” said Cousin Egbert firmly. “The Colonel here is awful fussy about my clothes,” he added.
“Is, heh?” inquired his friend. “How do you like this hat of mine?” he asked, turning to me. It was that sudden I nearly fluffed the catch, but recovered myself in time.
“I should consider it a hat of sound wearing properties, sir,” I said.
He took it off, examined it carefully, and replaced it.
“So far, so good,” he said gravely. “But why be fussy about clothes when God has given you only one life to live?”
“Don’t argue about religion,” warned Cousin Egbert.
“I always like to see people well dressed, sir,” I said, “because it makes such a difference in their appearance.”
He slapped his thigh fiercely. “My gosh! that’s true. He’s got you there, Sour-dough. I never thought of that.”
“He makes me wear these chest-protectors on my ankles,” said Cousin Egbert bitterly, extending one foot.
“What’s the matter of taking a little drive to see some well-known objects of interest?” said his friend.
“Not art galleries,” said Cousin Egbert firmly.
“We said that before—and not churches.”
“And not gents’ furnishing goods.”
“You said that before.”
“Well, you said not churches before.”
“Well, what’s the matter with taking a little drive?”
“Not art galleries,” insisted Cousin Egbert. The thing seemed interminable. I mean to say, they went about the circle as before. It looked to me as if they were having a bit of a spree.
“We’ll have one last drink,” said the Tuttle person.
“No,” said Cousin Egbert firmly, “not another drop. Don’t you see the condition poor Bill here is in?” To my amazement he was referring to me. Candidly, he was attempting to convey the impression that I had taken a drop too much. The other regarded me intently.
“Pickled,” he said.
“Always affects him that way,” said Cousin Egbert. “He’s got no head for it.”
“Beg pardon, sir,” I said, wishing to explain, but this I was not let to do.
“Don’t start anything like that here,” broke in the Tuttle person, “the police wouldn’t stand for it. Just keep quiet and remember you’re among friends.”
“Yes, sir; quite so, sir,” said I, being somewhat puzzled by these strange words. “I was merely——”
“Look out, Jeff,” warned Cousin Egbert, interrupting me; “he’s a devil when he starts.”
“Have you got a knife?” demanded the other suddenly.
“I fancy so, sir,” I answered, and produced from my waistcoat pocket the small metal-handled affair I have long carried. This he quickly seized from me.
“You can keep your gun,” he remarked, “but you can’t be trusted with this in your condition. I ain’t afraid of a gun, but I am afraid of a knife. You could have backed me off the board any time with this knife.”
“Didn’t I tell you?” asked Cousin Egbert.
“Beg pardon, sir,” I began, for this was drawing it quite too thick, but again he interrupted me.
“We’d better get him away from this place right off,” he said.
“A drive in the fresh air might fix him,” suggested Cousin Egbert. “He’s as good a scout as you want to know when he’s himself.” Hereupon, calling our waiting cabman, they both, to my embarrassment, assisted me to the vehicle.
“Ally caffy!” directed the Tuttle person, and we were driven off, to the raised hats of the remaining cabmen, through many long, quiet streets.
“I wouldn’t have had this happen for anything,” said Cousin Egbert, indicating me.
“Lucky I got that knife away from him,” said the other.
To this I thought it best to remain silent, it being plain that the men were both well along, so to say.
The cab now approached an open square from which issued discordant blasts of music. One glance showed it to be a street fair. I prayed that we might pass it, but my companions hailed it with delight and at once halted the cabby.
“Ally caffy on the corner,” directed the Tuttle person, and once more we were seated at an iron table with whiskey and soda ordered. Before us was the street fair in all its silly activity. There were many tinselled booths at which games of chance or marksmanship were played, or at which articles of ornament or household decoration were displayed for sale, and about these were throngs of low-class French idling away their afternoon in that mad pursuit of pleasure which is so characteristic of this race. In the centre of the place was a carrousel from which came the blare of a steam orchestrion playing the “Marseillaise,” one of their popular songs. From where I sat I could perceive the circle of gaudily painted beasts that revolved about this musical atrocity. A fashion of horses seemed to predominate, but there was also an ostrich (a bearded Frenchman being astride this bird for the moment), a zebra, a lion, and a gaudily emblazoned giraffe. I shuddered as I thought of the evil possibilities that might be suggested to my two companions by this affair. For the moment I was pleased to note that they had forgotten my supposed indisposition, yet another equally absurd complication ensued when the drink arrived.
“Say, don’t your friend ever loosen up?” asked the Tuttle person of Cousin Egbert.