“Get on, you dog,” shouted Sir John. And the head-gardener got on.
Presently Thomas appeared with the drink. At one time he had been desk-waiter at the Cabinet Club, London. At the Exiles’ Club, in this very tiny and remote island, he was a combination of steward and head-waiter. He wore black trousers and neck-tie and a white jacket. He was grey-haired, round-faced, and loose-mouthed.
Sir John let the ice clink musically against the glass. It was almost the only æsthetic pleasure that he enjoyed. He took a long suck at a couple of straws and then, as he fumbled for his money, said plaintively:
“I say, Thomas, aren’t they coming?”
“Coming directly, sir. The green lizard won, and they are not racing again, Mr Bassett having no more ready money with him.”
“Childish—utterly childish,” said Sir John, irritably.
“Your change, sir?”
“It was half-a-crown I gave you.”
“I took it for a florin,” said Thomas, quite unembarrassed. “My mistake. Sorry, sir.”