Shafto, an eager and enthusiastic listener, exclaimed:
“I say, how splendid! Do you know, Geoff, I’d give ten years of this life to have a good chance of seeing the world—especially the East?”
“Who knows—you might yet!”
“Pigs might fly! Still I must not grumble. I’m delighted you have had such a glorious time; when one’s friends are enjoying themselves, it’s next best to doing the same oneself. What leave have you got?”
“Only three months and every hour is priceless. This time to-morrow I shall be blazing away at a grouse drive.”
From grouse they fell to talking of shooting, of old scenes, of rabbiting and ferreting, of cricket matches, schoolfellows and scrapes.
Suddenly Douglas sprang to his feet and pointed to the clock.
“Half-past one, I must run! Good-bye and good luck, old boy,” wringing his friend’s hand, “I shan’t forget this lunch in a hurry,” and he was gone. This little break and talk of old times and warm friends gave Shafto something pleasant to think of for many days; it was like a gleam of sunshine in his grey and joyless life.
Richard Hutton, hack writer and “ghost,” sat next to him at table twice a day, and proved a sympathetic neighbour. Hutton was a clever, cultured, and—when he pleased—a wholly delightful companion. Occasionally on Sundays the pair made little excursions together, visited the City churches and quaint bits of Old London, or ventured a dash into the country, or up the river.
“You say Friday is a holiday in your office, Shafto,” he remarked one evening; “how would you like to come for a prowl, and see what we can find in the Caledonian Market? It’s an out-of-the-way place, where once a week all manner of rubbish is shot, and now and then you pick up a really staggering bargain.”