CHAPTER XVII
Ford's return to normal existence coincided with the arrival of mail-morning, when the breakfast menu was varied by home letters heaped upon the plates. Mrs. Jakes had one of her own this morning and was very conscious of it, affecting to find her correspondent's caligraphy hard to read. Old Mr. Samson had his usual pile and greeted him from behind a litter of torn wrappers and envelopes.
"Hullo, Ford," he cried, "up on your pins, again? Feelin' pretty bobbish—what?"
"Nice way you 've got of putting it," replied Ford, taking his seat before the three letters on his plate. "I 'm all right, though. You seem fairly well supplied with reading-matter this morning."
"The usual, the usual," said Mr. Samson airily. "People gone to the country; got time to write, don't you know. Here 's a feller tells me that the foxes down his way are simply rotten with mange."
"Awful," said Ford, glancing at the first of his own letters. "And here 's a feller tells me that he 's sent in the enclosed account nine times and must press for a cheque without delay. What 's the country coming to? Eh?"
"You be blowed," retorted Mr. Samson, and fell again to his reading.
From behind the urn Mrs. Jakes made noises indicative of lady-like exasperation.
"The way some people write, you 'd never believe they 'd been educated and finished regardless of expense," she declared. "There 's a word here—she 's telling me about a lady I used to know in Town—and whether she suffers from her children (though I never knew she was married) or from a chaplain, I can't make out. Can you see what it is, Mr. Ford? There, where I 'm pointing?"
"Oh, yes," said Ford. "It 's worse than you think, Mrs. Jakes. It 's chilblains."