“Candidly,” he replied, “I can’t say that it does.”
He turned from George, and addressed himself to Harris and myself.
“Your friend’s beauty,” said he, “I should describe as elusive. It is there, but you can easily miss it. Now, in that cap, to my mind, you do miss it.”
At that point it occurred to George that he had had sufficient fun with this particular man. He said:
“That is all right. We don’t want to lose the train. How much?”
Answered the man: “The price of that cap, sir, which, in my opinion, is twice as much as it is worth, is four-and-six. Would you like it wrapped up in brown paper, sir, or in white?”
George said he would take it as it was, paid the man four-and-six in silver, and went out. Harris and I followed.
At Fenchurch Street we compromised with our cabman for five shillings. He made us another courtly bow, and begged us to remember him to the Emperor of Austria.
Comparing views in the train, we agreed that we had lost the game by two points to one; and George, who was evidently disappointed, threw the book out of window.
We found our luggage and the bicycles safe on the boat, and with the tide at twelve dropped down the river.