That morning, before tiffin, after his escape from the Heyst bungalow, completed in such an inspiring way by the recovery of the slipper, Ricardo had made his way to their allotted house, reeling as he ran, his head in a whirl. He was wildly excited by visions of inconceivable promise. He waited to compose himself before he dared to meet the governor. On entering the room, he found Mr. Jones sitting on the camp bedstead like a tailor on his board, cross-legged, his long back against the wall.
“I say, sir. You aren't going to tell me you are bored?”
“Bored! No! Where the devil have you been all this time?”
“Observing—watching—nosing around. What else? I knew you had company. Have you talked freely, sir?”
“Yes, I have,” muttered Mr. Jones.
“Not downright plain, sir?”
“No. I wished you had been here. You loaf all the morning, and now you come in out of breath. What's the matter?”
“I haven't been wasting my time out there,” said Ricardo. “Nothing's the matter. I—I—might have hurried a bit.” He was in truth still panting; only it was not with running, but with the tumult of thoughts and sensations long repressed, which had been set free by the adventure of the morning. He was almost distracted by them now. He forgot himself in the maze of possibilities threatening and inspiring. “And so you had a long talk?” he said, to gain time.
“Confound you! The sun hasn't affected your head, has it? Why are you staring at me like a basilisk?”
“Beg pardon, sir. Wasn't aware I stared,” Ricardo apologized good-humouredly. “The sun might well affect a thicker skull than mine. It blazes. Phew! What do you think a fellow is, sir—a salamander?”