The Red House Mystery and Other Novels. A. A. Milne
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he do then? Should he leave her and swim for help? Or should he scale the mighty cliff?
He returned to the cave and, gazing romantically at the sleeping Miss Spratt, conjured up the scene. It would go like this, he thought.
_Miss Spratt (wakened by the spray dashing over her face)._ Oh, Mr. Bales! We're cut off by the tide! Save me!
_W. Bales (lightly)._ Tut-tut, there's no danger. It's nothing. (_Aside_) Great Heavens! Death stares us in the face!
_Miss Spratt (throwing her arms around his neck)._ William, save me; I cannot swim!
_W. Bales (with Waller face)._ Trust me, Angelina. I will fight my way round yon point and obtain help. (_Aside_) An Englishman can only die once.
_Miss Spratt._ Don't leave me!
_W. Bales._ Fear not, sweetheart. See, there is a ledge where you will be beyond the reach of the hungry tide. I will carry you thither in my arms and will then----
At this point in his day-dream William took another look at the sleeping Miss Spratt, felt his biceps doubtfully, and went on--
_W. Bales._ I will assist you to climb thither, and will then swim for help.
_Miss Spratt._ My hero!
Again and again William reviewed the scene to himself. It was perfect. His photograph would be in the papers; Miss Spratt would worship him; he would be a hero in his City office. The actual danger was slight, for at the worst she could shelter in the far end of the cave; but he would not let her know this. He would do the thing heroically--drag her to the ledge on the cliff, and then swim round the point to obtain help.
The thought struck him that he could conduct the scene better in his shirt sleeves. He removed his coat, and then went out of the cave to reconnoitre the ledge.
* * * * *
Miss Spratt awoke with a start and looked at her watch. It was 4.15. The cave was empty save for a crumpled page of newspaper. She glanced at this idly and saw that it was the local _Herald_ ... eight days old.
Far away on the horizon William Bales was throwing stones bitterly at the still retreating sea.
XIII. THE PORTUGUESE CIGAR
Everything promised well for my week-end with Charles. The weather was warm and sunny, I was bringing my golf clubs down with me, and I had just discovered (and meant to put into practice) an entirely new stance which made it impossible to miss the object ball. It was this that I was explaining to Charles and his wife at dinner on Friday, when the interruption occurred.
"By the way," said Charles, as I took out a cigarette, "I've got a cigar for you. Don't smoke that thing."
"You haven't let him go in for cigars?" I said reproachfully to Mrs. Charles. I can be very firm about other people's extravagances.
"This is one I picked up in Portugal," explained Charles. "You can get them absurdly cheap out there. Let's see, dear; where did I put it?"
"I saw it on your dressing-table last week," said his wife, getting up to leave us. He followed her out and went in search of it, while I waited with an interest which I made no effort to conceal. I had never heard before of a man going all the way to Portugal to buy one cigar for a friend.
"Here it is," said Charles, coming in again. He put down in front of me an ash-tray, the matches and a--and a--well, a cigar. I examined it slowly. Half of it looked very tired.
"Well," said Charles, "what do you think of it?"
"When you say you--er--_picked it up_ in Portugal," I began carefully, "I suppose you don't mean----" I stopped and tried to bite the end off.
"Have a knife," said Charles.
I had another bite, and then I decided to be frank.
"_Why_ did you pick it up?" I asked.
"The fact was," said Charles, "I found myself one day in Lisbon without my pipe, and so I bought that thing; I never smoke them in the ordinary way."
"Did you smoke this?" I asked. It was obvious that _something_ had happened to it.
"No, you see, I found some cigarettes at the last moment, and so, knowing that you liked cigars, I thought I'd bring it home for you."
"It's very nice of you, Charles. Of course I can see that it has travelled. Well, we must do what we can with it."
I took the knife and started chipping away at the mahogany end. The other end--the brown-paper end, which had come ungummed--I intended to reserve for the match. When everything was ready I applied a light, leant back in my chair, and pulled.
"That's all right, isn't it?" said Charles. "You'd be surprised if I told you what I paid for it."
"No, no, you mustn't think that," I protested. "Probably things are dearer in Portugal." I put it down by my plate for a moment's rest. "All I've got against it at present is that its pores don't act as freely as they should."
"I've got a cigar-cutter somewhere, if----"
"No, don't bother, I think I can do it with the nut-crackers. There's no doubt it was a good cigar once, but it hasn't wintered well."
I squeezed it as hard as I could, lit it again, pressed my feet against the table and pulled.
"Now it's going," said Charles.
"I'm afraid it keeps very reticent at my end. The follow-through is poor. Is your end alight still?"
"Burning beautifully."
"It's a pity that I should be missing all that. How would it be if we were to make a knitting-needle red-hot and bore a tunnel from this end? We might establish a draught that way. Only there's always the danger, of course, of coming out at the side."
I took the cigar up and put it to my ear.
"I can't hear anything wrong," I said. "I expect what it really wants is massage."
Charles filled his pipe again and got up. "Let's go for a stroll," he said. "It's a beautiful night. Bring your cigar with you."
"It may prefer the open air," I said. "There's always that. You know we mustn't lose sight of the fact that the Portuguese climate is different from ours. The thing's pores may have acted more readily in the South. On the other hand, the unfastened end may have been more adhesive. I gather that though you have never actually met anybody who has smoked a cigar like this, yet you understand that the experiment is a practicable one. As far as you know this had no brothers. No, no, Charles, I'm going on with it, but I should like to know all that you can tell me of its parentage. It had a Portuguese father and an American mother, I should say, and there has been a good deal of trouble in the family. One moment"--and as we went outside I stopped and cracked it in the door.
It was an inspiration. At the very next application of the match I found that I had established a connection with the lighted end. Not a long and steady connection, but one that came in gusts. After two gusts I decided that it was perhaps safer to blow from my end, and for a little while we had in this way as much smoke around us as the most fastidious cigar-smoker could want. Then I accidentally dropped it; something in the middle of it shifted, I suppose--and for the rest of my stay behind it only one end was at work.
"Well," said Charles, when we were back in the smoking-room and I was giving