Denis Merrow grinned.
“Any way,” he said, “we shan’t have scurvy.”
Fairie and Broke bade them farewell, and stood watching them pass down the avenue towards the sea.
“Bill,” said a voice.
They turned to see Betty standing in the doorway of the embroidery store, a delicate doily in either hand.
“Aren’t these lovely?” she said.
“Positively breath-removing,” said Fairie.
“Idiot! The only thing is, I think he’s asking rather a lot. D’you think you could – I mean, I believe one ought to bargain, only I can’t do it.”
“Leave it to me,” said Fairie. “I know my East. What does the merchant ask?”
“Two pounds each.”
In silence Bill took the embroidery and passed into the shop. The others followed a little uneasily and stood hesitatingly in the background. The stout Portuguese, a fresh cigar in his mouth, was hanging affectionately over his stuffs, carefully restoring order among such as had been inspected by the two girls, Fairie raised his hat. Then:
“You speak English?” he said.
“A little,” said the other, raising his hat in return.
“Right-o,” said Fairie. He held up the doilies. “These aren’t so bad. How much d’you want for them?”
“Two pounds each,” said the Portuguese.
Fairie shook his head.
“You mistake my meaning,” he said. “I’m not asking what you pay for your cigars.”
“Two pounds each,” said the other.
Fairie raised his eyebrows.
“That is too much,” he said coolly. “I’ll give you three-and-sixpence for the two.”
A perfect shriek of horror and dismay went up from Fay and Betty, while, with a choking sound, the Portuguese leaned forward and snatched his precious embroideries from Fairie’s hand. The next moment the two girls bore down upon the latter and hurried him protesting from the shop. Robin, red with shame, remained behind, fumbling nervously with his cigarette-case, endeavouring to apologize to the indignant shopkeeper and explaining, in his anxiety in bad French, that his friend was not normal and had had sunstroke before.
Once outside:
“I was a fool,” said Betty. “I was a fool to ask you. I might have known. Three-and-sixpence! I wonder the man didn’t try and murder you.”
“My dear,” said her husband, “to the ignorant the haggler’s art seems almost—”
“Rubbish,” said his wife.
“You didn’t give me a chance,” said Bill. “I was prepared to go up to two pounds. The beastly things cost him about six shillings each. He probably received them, knowing them to have been stolen.”
“I wonder you didn’t tell him so,” said Betty.
Her husband shook his head.
“No,” he said gravely. “That might have annoyed him.”
Fay broke into peals of merriment, and Robin emerged from the shop. As he came up:
“There are your wretched non-skids,” he said, handing a small package to Betty.
There was something irresistibly ludicrous about his demeanour.
“Oh, Robin dear,” said Betty, her voice trembling with laughter.
“I hope the rude man did not overcharge you, brother,” said Fairie.
“As for you,” said Robin, “you owe me four pounds and your life. Call it four guineas.”
For a while they wandered about the little town, exploring its winding streets. It was when they were making their way back to the hub of Starra that Fairie stopped suddenly and announced his intention of having his shoes cleaned.
“Nonsense,” said Betty. “You’ve done enough harm for one day.”
Critically her husband regarded his brown shoes.
“They’ve been through it on board,” he said, “and a devilish good greasing is what they want. They’ll never get it at the hotel.”
He pointed to a tiny frontless shop, little more than a booth, where two chairs were standing upon a dais, the shoeblack’s paraphernalia lying about them. On the threshold was lolling a little Portuguese, his arms folded, expectancy in his dark eyes.
“I’ll have them done here,” he said. “You go on and pick up a car. I shan’t be five minutes.”
With that, he entered the shop, ascended the dais, sank into a chair, and lighted a cigarette.
The others strolled on resignedly.
Ten minutes later Robin returned to the shop.
“What on earth–” he began.
“Hush,” said his cousin. “Not a word. The professor is in his element. Never have I witnessed such shoe-cleaning. When I tell you that he has only just done one—”
“What!” cried Robin.
“—to his satisfaction, you will appreciate—”
“Well, we’re going, and you must come on in another car.”
“That’s a nice thing to do,” said Bill. “You wait until—”
“Until we’re fed up,” said Robin. “It’s getting on for eleven now. Will you have finished by lunchtime, or shall we begin? So long.”
With a sigh Fairie lighted his third cigarette.
The professor had just smeared his patron’s left shoe with cream for the third time, when a dog’s cry of pain rang out above the slight clamour of the street. A passionate lover of animals, Bill Fairie sat up. Again came the cry. The next instant he was out of the chair. As he stepped on to the pavement, a whirlwind of quick breath and perfume flashed past his face – a girl all in white, going as hard as she could. An instant later Fairie was by her side.
“Where’s the dog?” he cried.
“Over there,” she panted, nodding towards the cathedral. “Oh, the brutes!”
Under the shadow of the great church, close up against its very wall, a poor brown mongrel was shrinking from the attentions of two Portuguese. Whatever it was, the active cruelty had stopped, but the unhappy animal crouched there in obvious dread and terror of its tormentors. It dared not move, for it was in a corner where two walls met. To bolt would have meant to run the gauntlet.
The two youths were so engrossed in their occupation that Fairie’s hands were upon them before they were aware of his approach. He brought their heads together with a shock that rattled round the open space in which the cathedral stood. The knees of one sagged under him, and he collapsed, holding his head and weeping like a child. The other tottered to the cathedral steps and sat there rocking himself to and fro, clasping his temples.
The whole affair was over so quickly that, before onlookers had recovered from their surprise, and those who had seen nothing had had time to inquire what was the matter, Fairie had picked up the trembling animal and was walking back with the girl towards “The Golden Gate.”
“I’m so glad you were here,” she said jerkily, for she was still out of breath. “I couldn’t run properly because of this skirt.”
“What skirt?” said Fairie, staring. “That is – I mean I thought you went jolly well.”
With a little laugh the girl put out a slim hand to stroke the mongrel, which was looking up at Fairie with wonder in his brown eyes.
“Poor old chap,” she said soothingly. “I do hope he isn’t much hurt. You were splendid,” she added; “the noise of their heads coming together made me feel sick.”
Fairie laughed.
“It’ll give them something to think about for twenty-four hours,” he said. “Is there much cruelty in Rih?”
“Practically none. I’ve been here for a month now, and this is the first I’ve seen. You see, the place is so English that the Society’s practically wiped it out.”
At this moment they were confronted by the professor, who, raising despairing hands, clearly implored his patron to let him complete the cleaning of his left shoe.
“Ah,” said Bill, “I’d forgotten about my shoes. I was having them cleaned, you know.” He turned to the Portuguese and pointed to the café, sixty paces away. “‘Golden Gate,’” he said. “Bring your cloths along and finish them there.”
The fellow appeared to understand, and turned again to his tiny shop. Fairie and his companion passed on.
Five minutes later they might have been seen sitting in wicker chairs outside the house in question, engaged in merry conversation, while their rough-coated protégé stood confidently between them, devouring a large portion of bread and meat. My lady was sipping a lemon squash, while on a table by Fairie’s elbow stood a French vermouth and soda. The latter’s left foot was poised upon the small portable dais peculiar to the shoeblack’s art, once so familiar a sight, and yet to be observed, in the streets of London, and the professor, with the aid of a tin, two bottles, three cloths, and a toothbrush was working upon the leather with renewed energy.
“Fairly spreading himself, isn’t he?” said Bill, pointing to the cleaner of shoes. “If he rubs it much longer, the leather’ll catch fire. I wonder how I’m to pay him. By time or distan – I mean area?”
“Labour’s cheap in Rih,” said the girl, with a smile. “If you give him sixpence, he’ll probably fall over himself.”
She was a nice-looking girl, very natural and easy, say, twenty-one years old. Her soft straw hat was shading an eager face. This was distinguished by a pair of magnificent eyes, large, grey and steady, such eyes as, when a man meets them, make him lose the thread of his speech.
Her white silk shirt became her and might have been cut to show how well her head was set upon her shoulders. Beneath the broad brim of her hat was a promise of sweet-smelling hair, of which her straight, dark eyebrows offered a bewitching earnest. Her scrap of a skirt did her lithe figure full justice, calling up statues of Artemis and proving that there are still limbs to compare with those Praxiteles thought fit to reproduce.
“Is this your first day?” said the girl. “I haven’t seen you before.”
Fairie nodded.
“Arrived with the dawn,” he said. “Breakfasted before you’d had your bath. You’re staying at ‘The Bristol,’ of course?”
“Naturally. Everyone is. Are you alone?”
“I have with me three children, two girls and a boy. They’re not mine,” he added hastily. “I’m just looking after them.”
“Are you?”
“Well, I was, but they cleared off just now, while I was having my shoes cleaned. I expect they’ll find their way back to the hotel.”
“Their absence doesn’t seem to worry you.”
“No,” said Fairie. “Their presence does that.”
“I believe,” said the girl slowly, “I believe I saw them, just before we met, getting into a car. Was the – er – boy wearing a Zingari tie?”
Fairie looked at her with a smile.
“I might have known from your eyes,” he said, “that it was impossible to deceive you.”
Over the munching mongrel the two became fast friends. It appeared that she was a cousin of Dorothy Lair’s – they had been at school together. The news of the latter’s engagement to ‘Pip’ Marlowe went far to turn the acquaintance into a positive relation.
“How strange!” said the girl.
“Yes,” said Fairie. “Please don’t add that the world’s very small.”
“I wasn’t going to,” laughed his companion. “But why?”
“Well, I’ve heard it said seven times in the last four days, and it annoys me. In the first place, it’s a platitude; secondly, it is a grossly inaccurate statement. The world is, unlike your feet, extremely large.”
“If you travel, you must put up with these things.”
“I could put up with your feet for ever.”
“Thank you, but I meant—”
“I know you did,” said Bill. “Anyway, there are compensations. You’re one of them. And now, may I have the honour of driving you back to the hotel? I see that Orlando, who drove me down, is disengaged and ready for anything.”
“Thank you very much,” said the girl. “And we’ll take the dog, too. One of the gardeners up there is a friend of mine. If I ask him, I think he’ll give him a home.”
“If you ask him,” said Fairie.
They were just swinging out of the sunlit places when the spectacle of a large store, crowded with wicker chairs of all sorts and descriptions, made Fairie remember the words of The White Hope. He cried to Orlando to stop, and turned to the girl.
“My dear,” he said, “it’s up to me to buy four chairs.”
“For yourself and the children?”
“Got it in one,” said Bill. “May I have—”
“The honour, etc., of my assistance? You may. You’re very polite this morning, aren’t you?”
“Always the same, believe me. Never a cross word.”
“I thought you knew it was impossible to deceive me.”
Fairie regarded her amusedly. Then:
“I wish you’d take off your hat,” he said. “I want to see your hair.”
The chairs were really quite inexpensive. For six or seven shillings you could purchase a very throne of luxury. After testing the resiliency of several seats, Fairie came to the conclusion that, so far as he was concerned, the choice lay between two triumphs of wickerwork.
“Hadn’t you better have that one?” said my lady, her voice trembling with laughter.
The chair she was indicating with a rosy forefinger, had a socket to take a tumbler by the side of its right arm.
Fairie shook his head.
“Attractive,” he said, “but useless. Like all confirmed drunkards, I soak in secret.”
He was on the point of ordering three others, similar to the one he had selected, when a miniature chair, in every respect like the others, but fashioned to fit a child, caught his eye. The girl’s words flashed across his mind. “For yourself and the children,” she had said. Quickly he turned to the man who was serving him.
“Have you two others like this?” – pointing to the miniature chair.
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“I’ll have three, then. Send them up with the big one this afternoon.”
“Oh,” said the girl, and fell into long laughter.
At Fairie’s dictation the man wrote the four names on luggage labels, and, to avoid all possibility of mistake, Bill tied his own label on to the big chair with his own hand. Then he paid for his purchases and cheerfully followed my lady out of the shop. The proprietor saw them to the door and watched their departure with every manifestation of respect. As the car disappeared, he sighed. A man of business, if not of humour, he could hardly have been expected to acquaint Fairie with the fact that, some thirty minutes before, two ladies and a gentleman had stopped at his emporium and chosen three large chairs and one baby one, giving the same four names and ordering them to be sent to the Bristol Hotel. The baby chair to be labelled “W Fairie.”