The Definite Object. Jeffery Farnol

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СКАЧАТЬ blood, every drop guaranteed, sir, and as truly English as—as I am!"

      "And is 'e the Mr. Ravenslee as is the sportsman? Goes in for boxing, don't 'e? Very much fancied as a heavyweight, ain't 'e? My governor's seen him box and says 'e's a perfect snorter, by Jove!"

      Mr. Brimberly sighed, and soothed a slightly agitated whisker.

      "Why, yes," he admitted, "I'm afraid 'e does box—but only as a ammitoor, Mr. Stevens, strickly as a ammitoor, understand!"

      "And he's out making a night of it, is 'e?" enquired Mr. Stevens, leaning back luxuriously and stretching his legs. "Bit of a rip, ain't 'e?"

      "A—wot, sir?" enquired Mr. Brimberly with raised brows.

      "Well, very wild, ain't he—drinks, gambles, and hetceteras, don't he?"

      "Why, as to that, sir," answered Mr. Brimberly, dexterously performing on the syphon, "I should answer you, drink 'e may, gamble 'e do, hetceteras I won't answer for, 'im being the very hacme of respectability though 'e is a millionaire and young."

      "And when might you expect 'im back?"

      "Why, there's no telling, Mr. Stevens."

      "Eh?" exclaimed Mr. Stevens, and sat up very suddenly.

      "'Is movements, sir, is quite—ah—quite metehoric!"

      "My eye!" exclaimed Mr. Stevens, gulping his brandy and soda rather hastily.

      "Metehoric is the only word for it, sir!" pursued Mr. Brimberly with a slow nod. "'E may drop in on me at any moment, sir!"

      "Why, then," said his guest, rising, "p'r'aps I'd better be moving?"

      "On the other 'and," pursued Mr. Brimberly, smiling and caressing his left whisker, "'e may be on 'is way to Hafghanistan or Hasia Minor at this pre-cise moment—'e is that metehoric, lord! These millionaires is much of a muchness, sir, 'ere to-day, gone to-morrer. Noo York this week, London or Paris the next. Young Har is always upsetting my plans, 'e is, and that's a fact, sir! Me being a nat'rally quiet, reasonable, and law-abiding character, I objects to youthful millionaires on principle, Mr. Stevens, on principle!"

      "Ditto!" nodded Mr. Stevens, his glance wandering uneasily to the door again, "ditto with all my 'eart, sir. If it's all the same to you, I think p'r'aps I'd better be hopping—you know—"

      "Oh, don't you worry about Young Har; 'e won't bother us to-night; 'e's off Long Island way to try his newest 'igh-power racing car—'e's driving in the Vanderbilt Cup Race next month. To-night 'e expects to do eighty miles or so, and 'opes to sleep at one of 'is clubs. I say 'e 'opes an' expects so to do!"

      "Yes," nodded Mr. Stevens, "certainly, but what do you mean?"

      "Sir," sighed Mr. Brimberly, "if you'd been forced by stern dooty to sit be'ind Young Har in a fast automobile as I 'ave, you'd know what I mean. Reckless? Speed? Well, there!" and Mr. Brimberly lifted hands and eyes and shook his head until his whiskers vibrated with horror.

      "Then you're pretty sure," said Mr. Stevens, settling luxurious boots upon a cushioned chair, "you're pretty sure he won't come bobbing up when least expected?"

      "Pretty sure!" nodded Mr. Brimberly. "You see, this nooest car is the very latest thing in racing cars—cost a fortune, consequently it's bound to break down—these here expensive cars always do, believe me!"

      "Why, then," said Mr. Stevens, helping himself to one of Mr. Brimberly's master's cigars, "I say let joy and 'armony be unconfined! How about Jenkins and 'is banjer?"

      "I'll call 'im up immediate!" nodded Mr. Brimberly, rising. "Mr. Jenkins is a true hartist, equally facetious and soulful, sir!"

      So saying, Mr. Brimberly arose and crossed toward the telephone. But scarcely had he taken three steps when he paused suddenly and stood rigid and motionless, his staring gaze fixed upon the nearest window; for from the shadowy world beyond came a sound, faint as yet and far away, but a sound there was no mistaking—the dismal tooting of an automobile horn.

      "'Eavens an' earth!" exclaimed Mr. Brimberly, and crossing to the window he peered out. Once again the horn was heard, but very much nearer now, and louder, whereupon Mr. Brimberly turned, almost hastily, and his visitor rose hurriedly.

      "It's very annoying, Mr. Stevens," said he, "but can I trouble you to—to step—er—down—stairs—with the glasses? It's 'ighly mortifying, but may I ask you to—er—step a little lively, Mr. Stevens?"

      Without a word, Mr. Stevens caught up the tray from the piano and glided away on his toe-points; whereupon Mr. Brimberly (being alone) became astonishingly agile and nimble all at once, diving down to straighten a rug here and there, rearranging chairs and tables; he even opened the window and hurled two half-smoked cigars far out into the night; and his eye was as calm, his brow as placid, his cheek as rosy as ever, only his whiskers—those snowy, telltale whiskers, quivered spasmodically, very much as though endeavouring to do the manifestly impossible and flutter away with Mr. Brimberly altogether; yes, it was all in his whiskers.

      Thus did Mr. Brimberly bustle softly to and fro until he paused, all at once, arrested by the sound of a slow, firm step near by. Then Mr. Brimberly coughed, smoothed his winglike whiskers, and—pulled down his waistcoat for the third time. And lo! even as he did so, the door opened, and the hero of this history stood upon the threshold.

CHAPTER II

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OF A MOURNFUL MILLIONAIRE WHO LACKED AN OBJECT

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      Geoffrey Ravenslee was tall and pale and very languid, so languid indeed that the automobile coat he bore across his arm slipped to the floor ere Mr. Brimberly could take it, after which he shed his cap and goggles and dropped them, drew off his gauntlets and dropped them and, crossing to his favourite lounge chair, dropped himself into it, and lay there staring into the fire.

      "Ah, Brimberly," he sighed gently, "making a night of it?"

      "Why, sir," bowed his butler, "indeed, sir—to tell the truth, sir—"

      "You needn't, Brimberly. Excellent cigars you smoke—judging from the smell. May I have one?"

      "Sir," said Brimberly, his whiskers slightly agitated, "cigars, sir?"

      "In the cabinet, I think," and Mr. Ravenslee motioned feebly with one white hand towards the tall, carved cabinet in an adjacent corner.

      Mr. Brimberly coughed softly behind plump fingers.

      "The—the key, sir?" he suggested.

      "Oh, not at all necessary, Brimberly; the lock is faulty, you know."

      "Sir?" said Brimberly, soothing a twitching whisker.

      "If you are familiar with the life of the Fourteenth Louis, Brimberly, you will remember that the Grand Monarch hated СКАЧАТЬ