“I don’t mind that,” said Wynyard; “‘nothing venture—nothing have.’”
“He wants a smart chap—a well-bred ’un—with no nerves. Shall I undertake the delicate negotiation? I expect you’d suit him down to the ground!”
CHAPTER XXX
MASHAM—THE MOTORIST
“I’ll go over and have a jaw with him; you stay here till I come back,” said Wynyard’s friend, rising as he spoke.
Ten minutes later, he appeared accompanied by a clean-shaven, bullet-headed little man—with a brick-coloured complexion, sleek black hair, a pair of small, piercing grey eyes, and the shoulders of a Hercules.
“Wynyard, let me introduce you to Masham, the celebrated motorist. Masham, this is my old chum Wynyard; we were in the same house at Eton. He is in want of a job—you are in want of a chauffeur—and here you are!” Then, with a wave of his hand, he added, “Now, I’ll leave you to worry it out between you. You will find me in the card-room,” and he took his departure.
“Well,” said Masham, throwing himself back in an arm-chair, and stretching out his legs, “our mutual friend has been telling me all about you, and how you are an Army chap, awfully sportin’, and have no nerves to speak of.”
“Yes, I shouldn’t call myself—er—nervous,” said Wynyard, lighting a cigarette.
“I suppose Eustace has told you that I’m motor mad? Motoring is my fad. I expect I’ve put in more miles than any man of my age in England. On these long journeys I like to have a pal who can drive a bit, is a gentleman, and has got his head screwed on the right way. By the bye, are you a married man?”
“No.”