"He hasn't got a missus," Paul said, "anybody could see that. He does exactly what he likes. No one tidies his things. He hasn't got one."
"Perhaps he'll throw it away himself," Fiammetta persisted.
"I don't believe it," cried Paul, on the verge of tears. "He wouldn't do such a thing. He's not that kind of person."
"You'll never see that old truncheon again," Fiammetta remarked with a superior finality that drove Paul to make reprisals.
He stoutly maintained his belief in his friend, but he was plainly anxious, for he knew that he could never find his way again to that other county. He had wandered there, haphazard, across fields, and never noticed the roads on the return journey—he was so busy talking to his friend. He added a petition to his prayers that the beloved "chuncheon" might be restored to him, and "so," as Mr. Pepys would say, "to bed."
Next morning his faith was justified. It arrived by post, in a neat parcel sealed at each end, and inside, printed by the little piano, "I hope you were not worried about it. I found the weapon when I got back."
"There," said Paul, "didn't I say so? I knew he wasn't a throwing-away sort of man."
XIX
A MISFIT
Ronnie left the beach and climbed the steep slope till he reached the summit, where rough grass and stones edged golden cornfields that stretched inland as far as the eye could see.