“I may want it,” said Bobby.
“You don’t mean—!” said Billy.
Bobby came as near to an explosion as he ever did.
“Oh never mind what I mean. I tell you I’m going down to Cummerdown to have a look at the place. No doubt I’m a futile ass, Billy, but I just can’t help myself going. The poor little beggar’s got no friends. His own family’s helped to put him away. Families do. It’s an infernal world. I’ve got to do something. If it’s only to shake ’em up. If I stay here another day I shall start smacking Susan.”
“Somebody ought to,” said Billy.
“If he can only keep away for fourteen days clear——”
“He’s free?” said Tessy.
“He has to be certified all over again—anyhow,” said Bobby.
§ 2
Bobby discovered that the village of Cummerdown lies nearly two miles away from the asylum, and does its best very successfully to have as little to do with it as possible. It nestles among trees just off the high-road to Ashford and Hastings, and has one cramped little inn that gave him a bleak bedroom and accommodated his machine and side-car in an open outhouse crowded with two carts and a Ford and populous with hens. The day was still young, and after he had deposited the elderly rucksac in which he had brought his “things” upstairs, he set out with a walking-stick and an air of detached interest to reconnoitre the asylum and develop his plans for the rescue of Sargon. That golden autumn was still holding out; the pleasant lane he followed to the high-road was patterned with green and yellow chestnut leaves and the trees overhead were full of sunshine. It was a reassuring day. It encouraged him. It took him with a kindly seriousness and made him feel that rescuing people from lunatic asylums was the sort of work the sun could shine upon and nature welcome.