“Oh, certingly, sir.”
“Can you cook?”
“I have hitherto stayed at houses where separate cooks was kept,” said he; “but if we should happen to be a-camping out in Norway, sir, there isn't nothing but French pastry I won't be happy to oblige with—on a occasion, that's to say, sir.”
Not only were Mr. Alingle's accomplishments comprehensive, but he evidently looked upon himself as already engaged by me. Internally cursing his impudence, I asked next if he could sew.
“At a pinch, sir,” said he. “That is,” he added, correcting this vulgar expression, “if the maids is indisposed, or like as if we was on board your yacht, sir, and there was no hother alternative.”
“We” again—and it seemed Mr. Alingle expected me to keep a yacht!
Could he load and clean a gun, saddle a horse, ride a bicycle, oil a motor-car, read a cipher, and manage a camera? Yes; in the absence of the various officials which “our” establishment maintained for these purposes, Mr. Mlingle would be able and willing to oblige.
Moreover, he talked with a beautiful accent, and only very occasionally misused an aspirate; and there could be no doubt he would make an impressive appearance in any livery I could design. Even as a Pierrot he would have looked dignified. On what pretext could I reject this paragon?
“Can you drive an omnibus?” I demanded, at last, with a flash of genius.
This time Mr. Alingle looked fairly disconcerted.