“Why that? Did he have a nightmare like me?”
“He had something: he was looking an old man this morning, and he said he hadn’t closed an eye.”
“Well, let him save up his tale till I come back.”
“Very well, I will if I can. Look here, are you going to be late? If you get a puncture eight miles off and have to walk home, what then? I don’t trust these bicycles: I shall tell them to give us cold things to eat.”
“I shan’t mind that, whether I’m late or early. But I’ve got things to mend punctures with. And now I’m off.”
It was just as well that the Squire had made that arrangement about a cold supper, Fanshawe thought, and not for the first time, as he wheeled his bicycle up the drive about nine o’clock. So also the Squire thought and said, several times, as he met him in the hall, rather pleased at the confirmation of his want of faith in bicycles than sympathetic with his hot, weary, thirsty, and indeed haggard, friend. In fact, the kindest thing he found to say was: “You’ll want a long drink to-night? Cider-cup do? All right. Hear that, Patten? Cider-cup, iced, lots of it.” Then to Fanshawe, “Don’t be all night over your bath.”
By half-past nine they were at dinner, and Fanshawe was reporting progress, if progress it might be called.
“I got to Lambsfield very smoothly, and saw the glass. It is very interesting stuff, but there’s a lot of lettering I couldn’t read.”
“Not with glasses?” said the Squire.