“And suppose you were incompetent all round?”
Charlesworth turned and looked at him. Lucian, laughing, appeared hardened and insouciant, but the American was slow to judge. “Well, I don’t say I’m right,” he said; “and I don’t say you’re wrong. But I couldn’t do with your way, and I guess you couldn’t do with mine.”
“There are nine-and-sixty ways of constructing tribal lays, and every single one of them is right,” quoted Lucian, coughing.
“You toddle home; the siren will go in half an hour, and this air’s bad for your cough,” said Farquhar, coming up and putting his hand on Lucian’s shoulder.
“Shut up, you prophet! you thing of evil! I haven’t coughed once this day.”
“There you err; I’ve heard you twice, myself.”
“Well, that isn’t once, is it?”
They laughed, and Farquhar shook him by the shoulder, apostrophizing him as a fool. “It’s reeking damp here by the water; you’ll be laid up if you aren’t careful.”
“You want me to see your dinner’s ready, that’s what it is,” said Lucian, going. Charlesworth looked at Farquhar. “Sick?” he asked, with a backward nod.
“No constitution at all.”