PART THIRTY
THE COMMENCEMENT OF DREAMS
§ 1
Peter Jameson was no “hero,” only an average decent human being who had gone out to fight the two-legged Beasts which threatened his country, very much as his ancestors might have gone out to wage war against the four-legged beasts which threatened their caves. And being an average human being, his feelings—as the taxi whirled him Savoy-wards—expressed himself in crude song. “And another little drink wouldn’t do us any harm,” sang Peter Jameson. . . . It must be admitted that he sang execrably.
He overpaid the driver; swung through the revolving door; turned left past the grill-room; and made for the bar. It was just one o’clock, and the place hummed with drinking men.
“Good God,” said a voice, “here’s old P.J.”
Peter looked up and recognized Major Conway. The big black-haired sportsman stood, riding-cane in one hand, sherry-cobbler in the other, among a little knot of subalterns.
“What’ll you have?” he asked.
Peter decided on a Martini; swigged it down; stood a round to the party.
“When are you coming out again?” said the Major; and being told the news, “Lucky devil. Wish I were out of it. Wish I were lyin’ on a long chair in the Tanglin Club at Singapore, with an ejao at my elbow and a Manila cheroot stuck in my face. You ought to try the F.M.S.,[[15]] P.J. This country’s no good for a white man. Too many sanguinary restrictions.”
The subalterns melted away, and the two friends sat down at one of the little round marble-topped tables. “ ’Nother drink?” suggested Conway. “Champagne cocktail?”