Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ he had felt that a present with the giver’s brand of ownership on it was better than anything bought – and he had been in no position to buy anything, anyway; Laker’s stores and the Castle Lancing dairy carrying only a limited supply of trinkets for the haut monde, as Thornhill remarked.

      “Extraordinary things.” The King had lifted one of the spurs from the box, and was spinning its big rowel which tinkled musically as it moved. “Care to go hunting in those, Arlesdon?”

      “Rather not, sir. Bit conspicuous, I fancy.” There were murmurs of agreement, and Colonel Dammit remarked that they were barbarous-lookin’ things; Peggy said:

      “Aren’t they dreadfully cruel – to the horse, I mean?”

      “Not as cruel as the ones you were wearing today,” said Mr Franklin. “Those big rowels are blunt; they won’t even dent a horse’s hide.”

      “Well, I shall certainly wear them, and they will make beautiful knick-knacks of decoration,” said Mrs Keppel, smiling warmly at Mr Franklin. The King was watching him curiously.

      “You’ve been in Mexico? What were you doing there?”

      Mr Franklin paused, in that distinguished little assembly, and then said with a smile: “Well, sir, I was what they call ‘on the prod’; just moving from place to place, doing this and that; punching cattle – that’s driving them, you know –”

      “I know,” said the King. “But you’re not a cow-hand.”

      “Why, no, sir. Most of the time, when my partner and I could raise the stake, we went prospecting – mining for silver, gold, in the sierras.”

      “Extraordinary. A miner forty-niner, eh?” The King sat back in his chair. “May I have one of your cigarettes?”

      Mr Franklin realized that quite unconsciously he had drawn his case from his pocket, and was turning it between his fingers. He hastened to open it; the King took the case and examined its contents.

      “What’s this? ‘Colonel Bogey’? Don’t know them.” He put one between his lips, closed the case and examined it, before returning it.

      “And then – you struck it rich? Isn’t that the expression?” He looked directly at Mr Franklin while Mrs Keppel lighted the cigarette for him.

      “Not too badly, sir. We paid for our trip.”

      “And for a trip to England?” The King puffed, coughed, and peered at the cigarette.

      “Why, yes, sir. My family was English, a long time back.”

      “Yes – Soveral was telling me you’ve brought a house. Now, most of our American visitors ‘do’ the sights, buy up Bond Street, take all the best shooting, and marry into the House of Lords.” The King coughed and chuckled. “Can’t blame the peers – marrying rich Americans is about all they’ll be able to do if Mr Lloyd George has his way. Eh, Halford? But –” to Mr Franklin again “– you mean to stay, I gather?”

      “I believe so, sir.”

      “Remarkable.” The King coughed again, and regarded his cigarette. “Alice, you may stop rebuking me; I shall never smoke cigarettes again.”

      “Never, sir!” Mrs Keppel made a pretty grimace of mock surprise. “I can’t believe that!”

      “True, though.” The King replaced his cigarette, wheezing. “I shall cease smoking cigarettes, and smoke only ‘Colonel Bogeys’. I’m not sure what they are, but they’re certainly not cigarettes. Eh, Franklin?”

      Mr Franklin smiled apologetically amidst the polite laughter, and the King went on:

      “Do any hunting in Mexico?”

      “Hardly, sir. But I have hunted in the Rocky Mountains.”

      “Someone got a grizzly bear in his luncheon basket that time, did he?” The little eyes screwed up in royal mirth, the others applauded dutifully, and his majesty went on to say that that reminded him, what about dinner?

      Sir Charles Clayton had been turning anxious glances towards the door for five minutes; Peggy had vanished, presumably to see what was happening in the kitchen. At this reminder Sir Charles looked wretched and muttered an apology, Mrs Keppel covered the embarrassed silence with a bright remark, and the King sat back, grumbling quietly. Mr Franklin, from his place by the mantelpiece, observed the looks that were being exchanged among the guests, marvelled inwardly at the curious atmosphere which, he supposed, must surround royalty even in this democratic age, and decided it was nothing to do with him. Should he offer the King another cigarette? – probably better not; the portly figure had disgruntlement written in every line of it now, and even Mrs Keppel was looking anxious. Clayton, who had aged five years in as many minutes, muttered another apology and fled from the room; there were a few muted whispers, a stifled laugh, and a growl from the King. The minutes ticked by; Mr Franklin wondered if he should offer conversation, but was restrained by a vague sense that one didn’t speak in the presence of royalty until spoken to. He made the most of his time by examining the King surreptitiously: how old was he? Around seventy, and in some ways he looked it; the beard was grey, although the moustache was still dark, but the face was heavily-veined and high living had puffed up the fat round eyes which, Mr Franklin reflected, were probably small and shrewd in a King, but in a commoner might well have been described as piggy. Powerful build, though, and vigorous enough apart from that cough; in the silence he could hear the asthmatic rustle – old man Davis had sounded just the same; come to think of it, if you put a red undervest on Edward VII, and a battered old hat, he’d pass for a Tonopah silver-hog anywhere. What would Davis have thought if he could see his partner now, hob-nobbing with royalty; what would his ghost be saying if it were at Mr Franklin’s shoulder …?

      “That the King? The King? King of England? Well, goddamighty! Looks a likely old feller, don’t he? Knows a few songs an’ stories, I bet. And that she-male coo-in’ over him? Say, wherever did you see a pair o’ paps like those? Ain’t those the real artickles, them; and ain’t she the finest piece of meat you ever saw in a skirt? Why, the dirty old goat, she’s wasted on him! Say, wouldn’t I like to squire her to the Bella Union, though, an’ get her playful on whisky-punch? Yessir, she’d be a real playful lady …”

      Mr Franklin became suddenly aware that the King was looking at him – God, had he been thinking aloud? But in fact his majesty was merely examining him speculatively; there was even a twinkle in his pouchy eyes. Presumably some happy thought had momentarily banished his sulky impatience for dinner.

      “‘On the prod’, was it? Curious expression. Not the same thing as ‘on the dodge,’ though, I fancy?”

      “No, sir. No, not at all,” said Mr Franklin, and despite himself he felt a tiny prickle on his spine. It occurred to him that in their brief conversation King Edward had probably found out more about him in two minutes than most people could have discovered in two years, and was even making a little humorous speculation. No, he hadn’t been on the dodge; not really – not until now, at any rate. And this tubby old gentleman had sensed it. It occurred to Mr Franklin that possibly being a king, and presumably spending a lifetime among statesmen and diplomats and ministers, probably did nothing to blunt a man’s native shrewdness; he was certainly nobody’s fool, this one. Fortunately Mr Franklin was spared any further embarrassing inquisition by the announcement of dinner, at which royalty heaved up gratefully, and even beamed at the slightly flustered Peggy.

      “Trouble СКАЧАТЬ